Who Needs Them All To Be Classics?
A late-in-life interview saw writer/wit Anita Loos high for old movies she had been watching over sleepless hours on NY television. “Even the bad ones have great vitality,” she said. Started me to thinking that, yes, they do. Sometimes especially the “bad” ones. It no longer must be just-classics to please in these quarters. Aspect of those can almost intimidate. I watched Cult of the Cobra last night and was charmed, it being of snake woman Faith Domergue questioning her commitment to a kill-spree on behalf of an Eastern sect intruded upon by Yank servicemen out for kicks. She falls for dumbest of the bunch Marshall Thompson and we’re supposed to approve, except I did not because here's a sap better left to fate a beauty-turned-serpent would deign for him. I called out “Don’t! She’s a cobra!” each time MT eased forward to clinch FD, but being late night alone in darkness saw my warnings unheeded. I began wondering if I might still want to kiss Faith Domergue even knowing she might revert to scaled skin, this a question any man might ask himself. So you see, Cult of the Cobra does address vital issues even as it falls short of what convention would call a classic. To follow then, are selections not arrived at other than arbitrarily, being mere-what-turned-up while foraging for perhaps better things. They remind me of a story told by Sarah Karloff of occasion when Dad took her to adopt a dog from the pound. She chose a cute one rather than three-legged, or one-eyed, or maybe just scruffy, alternatives. Boris complied, let Sarah have her pick, being sorry she left sad dogs, for “they needed love most of all.” Here also are perhaps sad dogs, so let’s for a moment love them too …
PRIVATE Number (1936) --- Photoplay said of Private Number, It's a paean to love, unsaid being fact it was also a sop to readers of Photoplay, who lived for dreamy close-upping with stars Loretta Young and Robert Taylor. She was lately back from desert "rest cure" for an alleged nervous breakdown (actually a pregnancy leave w/Clark Gable's child), and it was said the actress would marry Eddie Sutherland, bon vivant director late of Louise Brooks' bed, such perks largely reason for guys like Eddie pursuing movie work in the first place (Brooks recalled he cared more for party life than making good pictures). Should you like Private Number enough (and many did --- it was a hit and was even reissued a mere two years later), there were stills available via 20th Fox at Box 900 in Beverly Hills, one dime, please, for each. Other companies sold photos from New York home offices, mags like Picture Play supplying addresses and price lists. I had heard of player portraits available, was less aware that scene stills also circulated among fanbase, till-now assuming they went only to poster exchanges or print outlets, this under head of learning something every day.
| Who's For Traveling Back Ninety Years To Trade Places with Eddie Sutherland? |
"When They Smile, You'll Hold Your Breath," was tagline used for Private Number ads, referring to Young/Taylor in promised embrace. These were quintessence of H'wood's Beautiful People, Taylor to such a degree that it was years before anyone recognized him as any kind of actor (and in fact, Taylor had a tough time reaching such level of confidence himself). Young had bought into the machinery and her performances would become as mechanical, sort of a Maria the Robot of Rotwang design. Private Number then, was a picture with everything, and nothing. Glamour parts being interchangeable, you could as easily stall production a few months and let newly arrived (to stardom) Tyrone Power do Taylor's part, with anyone from Janet Gaynor to Constance Bennett filling for Young. In fact, Bennett had done a near identical turn in precode's Common Clay, which at least had surface honesty denied censor-clamped Private Number.
| Roy Del Ruth Directs Loretta Young |
The only ones approaching human behavior as we might experience it are Basil Rathbone and comic support Patsy Kelly. In fact, this is Rathbone's show from opening to last, him the frustrated coveter of Loretta favors and doing dreadful things to win them. We feel Basil's pain for identifiable emotions the starrier types would not engage lest they lose our sympathy and diminish a public's worship. Rathbone does commendable turn of making his nasty butler more darker aspect of us than Taylor/Young, with their chat and endless clinches, him summoning reserves of smited love, class resentment, and bent sexual obsession. Rathbone is in short too good for fluff that is Private Number, but here's the thing, he makes it good enough. To ignore Private Number is to miss joy of star vehicular assault upon matinee goers who dropped what they could spare of coin on fan magazines (or those mail-order stills) after purchase of tickets. Private Number was a movie for people who used movies like a drug. To them, it was news that Robert Taylor was teamed here for a first time with Loretta Young, him borrowed from Metro, its executives having pecuniary interest in a healthy 20th Century Fox. Private Number has turned up on the latter's satellite channel, then as an On-Demand DVD, quality OK and worth a dip in event price drops below fifteen or less dollars, a level it finds at Amazon from time to time.
A RAGE IN HEAVEN (1941) --- Mad as a hatter Robert Montgomery oppresses wife Ingrid Bergman, who stays and stays despite every indication she should get hell out. George Sanders is for once more sinned against than sinning, and ends up in a murder frame. For a possibly one and only time, we see George weep on camera, which in itself might make A Rage In Heaven essential viewing, though I for one do not enjoy seeing George cry, preferring instead to see him induce others to tears. Bergman began here a cycle wherein she'd be victimized by unbalanced husband/lovers, Gaslight and Spellbound to more successfully follow A Rage In Heaven. This actress was husky enough to stave off most any attacker, save Mike Mazurki or Bull Montana, so you wonder why she so meekly plays doormat. Selznick owned Bergman and loaned her for projects like this one for MGM. Montgomery had gone psycho before in Night Must Fall, so someone at least saw rot below surface charm.
Ingrid Bergman would years later recall strife with speed-director W.S. Van Dyke, who she said gave no guidance and was always in a rush. That generally was a plus to Van Dyke output, even as he was overcome by a lugubrious yarn spun here. Bergman might have relaxed and let Van quick-finish what he or anyone could see was movie equivalent of paperback books. A Rage In Heaven is one where folks dress even where eating at home sans guests. There is barely a scene with Montgomery or Sanders out of black tie. Metro figured we'd all like to live thus and so poured away, A Rage In Heaven among plush chairs brought back when Leo began a postwar series of "Masterpiece Reprints" in 1946. What wiser than to encore Bergman now that she was a hottest of lead ladies? Success of A Rage In Heaven was dazzling for a reissue, or, for that matter, first-run. Weak as it was, $1.7 million in worldwide rentals was realized, this for but five-year-old product. 1941's release had yielded mere $920K from ditto marketplace. MGM's reissue program was off to a roaring lion's start.
NOBODY LIVES FOREVER (1946) --- John Garfield confidence gaming in a yarn by crime specialist W.R. Burnett of Little Caesar/High Sierra fame, links emphasized by WB for the trailer and elsewhere. The Code still frowned on gangster exploit, but this was more along lines of flimflamming with minimum of gunplay, so dialogue dominates.
TWO TICKETS TO BROADWAY (1951) --- Howard Hughes "Presents" a musical. His name was prominent in credits and ads, so HH must have been proud. He hired best talent to beat MGM at a genre they were acknowledged to own, borrowing Leo talent (Janet Leigh, Ann Miller, Marge/Gower Champion as dance coaches) and splurging $2.3 million on the negative. This was extravagant even by Metro standards, let alone RKO where fists were tighter, except where Hughes took personal interest, in which case costs ballooned. The largely unseen chief had a yen for Leigh that could be but satisfied between sheets, and toward that end, he would delay punch of Two Tickets, then dither once production was underway. Outcome that should be dire is instead okay, agreeable surprise for being done by unaccustomed-to-song RKO.
Added sugar was Hughes hiring Busby Berkeley to stage numbers; you know him by sudden departure from workmanlike James V. Kern direction to swooping camera that was Buzz's. Janet Leigh was taught to dance, while Ann Miller, of course, came prepared, her wisely given tap solos, being most accomplished of the girl quartet that also numbers Gloria DeHaven and Barbara Lawrence. These, plus Tony Martin, were pleasing talents, and it's good seeing them shine in a lush vehicle all their own. There's also Bob Crosby as himself, singing to a wax figure of Bing, odd depart by a performer you'd have thought was out from under brother's shadow by 1951. Action happens on staging of Bob's TV program, a welcome glimpse at Hollywood concept of what went on behind vid scenes.
There is also New York as seen from roof of walk-ups, a soothing bath of neon colors that must have been a trial to sleep among for those living in Gotham at the time. Best of guests are Smith and Dale of vaude fame, these two together longer than anyone performing anywhere, most agreeing their act still worked. We could regret that originally slated Laurel and Hardy couldn't fill these parts, but Smith/Dale do fine by material ancient as they were by '51. Forget where I saw/read it, but Janet Leigh recalled L&H at a script reading, indicating they were along for at least part of the ride. Too bad effort of Two Tickets would not pay, the show losing $1.1 million. Problem was not a public's rejection; worldwide rentals a not bad $2.7 million ... it's just that Hughes sunk way more than could be recovered. Two Tickets To Broadway plays TCM in gorgeous HD color.
