Category: Discussion

  • The Prodigal

    Some Thoughts

    Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer released fifteen musicals in 1930, but by the end of the year, musicals were falling out of favour with the general public. The studio had already abandoned one major production, The March of Time, and only put out three musicals in the whole of 1931.

    All three suffered as a result of the public’s growing aversion to singing actors, but none more so than The Prodigal. MGM was still keeping faith with opera star Lawrence Tibbett, and his singing in this latest picture was outstanding, especially in ‘Without a Song’, performed to Vincent Youmans’s beautiful melody and with only slightly racist lyrics. But two other numbers–Jacques Wolfe’s ‘De Glory Road’ and ‘Life is a Dream’, written by Oscar Straus and Arthur Freed–were filmed but then deleted from the final cut. Studios thought they could make musicals more palatable to the public by having less music in them, which made little sense when your star was one of the world’s greatest singers.

    At the same time, The Prodigal was an attempt at presenting Tibbett in a non-operetta, and he does quite well in the more low-key dramatic scenes. Comic relief is provided by Roland Young (in the last of his three MGM musicals–he even gets to sing a few notes in this one) and Cliff Edwards.

    Esther Ralston, as Toni, is a fetching female lead in the typically pre-code story, with its easy-going, non-judgemental attitude to divorce. Her mother-in-law, Cynthia, swoops in as a deus ex machina, blithely instructing one son to get a divorce and the other to come back and claim Toni when it is all over, in one of the most hastily-arranged climaxes in 30s’ cinema. 

    Harry Pollard was obscure enough not even to rate a mention in Quinlan’s Film Directors, but he does not do a bad job on The Prodigal. He keeps it simple, with the only busy sequence being the barbeque with its mass of singers. Sadly, the sequence is painful in its racial stereotyping and Tibbett’s condescending serenade to the ever-smiling crowd of unnamed Black performers.

  • New Moon (1930)

    Some Thoughts

    The 1930 version of New Moon is unmistakably a pre-code picture, the two lovers having sex within the first fifteen minutes but remaining unmarried until almost the end. Even more strikingly, the sexual relationship is engineered, not by the philandering Lawrence Tibbett, but by Grace Moore, knowingly having fun with no intention of taking it seriously. 

    Moore was, by her own admission, no great shakes as an actor (she described herself as “like a singing Mae West with long hair”), but she is much more effective here than in A Lady’s Morals, where the virginal Jenny Lind gave her little scope to do anything but sing. Her Princess Tanya is bold, promiscuous and, at least in the first half, a cold-hearted opportunist, conspiring with her uncle and aunt to marry wealth. Moore’s performance is playful; notice the subtle  reaction when Adolphe Menjou’s wandering hand finds her outstanding derrière.

    Lawrence Tibbett gives a solid performance, the highlight being his fully-integrated rendition of the beautiful ‘Lover Come Back to Me’. He is also suitably vituperative when singing ‘What is Your Price Madam?’, a number by Stothart and Grey which holds its own with the songs retained from the original Romberg-Hammerstein score.

    New Moon benefits from having two outstanding supporting players in Roland Young and Adolphe Menjou. Young, as the easygoing uncle, seems much more comfortable here than in the frenzy of Madam Satan and steals all his scenes. Menjou, as always, personifies debonair sophistication as ‘Bedroom Boris’. Gus Shy, the only member of the original stage cast to feature in the film version, was always an acquired taste, but he does, at least, get to die a noble death.

    Jack Conway’s direction is above-average for Metro’s earliest musicals, especially in the first, boudoir comedy section.  The second half, set in the fortress, is less interesting, though it features some excellent photography by Oliver T Marsh and impressive process shots. There is also a well-staged battle sequence that is quite unexpected in a musical. Apparently the effort of wrangling two Metropolitan Opera stars wore out Conway and Sam Wood completed the picture, which may explain some dropping off in the quality of the staging.

    Nonetheless, while New Moon creaks like the ship the characters sail on, it remains eminently watchable.

  • A Lady’s Morals

    Some ThoughtsNo thesaurus is needed to find the best word to describe A Lady’s Morals. ‘Dull’ is the obvious choice. 

    Grace Moore was the second star of the Metropolitan Opera signed up by MGM but, unlike Lawrence Tibbett, she has no onscreen charisma. In real life–and judging from her enjoyable autobiography–Moore was lively and vivacious, but none of that comes across in her film debut. Her performance is far too weak to carry the picture, and no one knew that better than Moore herself, who wrote scathingly about it. 

    She is not helped by the fact that the film’s subject, Jenny Lind, lived a stainless and uneventful life, reflected in the fact that the only moment of drama in A Lady’s Morals is a bout of stage fright.

    Reginald Denny’s mannered performance aonly adequate support. In his first scenes he seems to be continuing his irritating performance as Bob in Madam Satan; later, he is self-sacrificing. Wallace Beery makes nothing of his brief appearance as P T Barnum, because he is given nothing to do. He was given another, and better, stab at the role in The Mighty Barnum (1934).

    Sidney Franklin’s direction and George Barnes’s cinematography are workmanlike, but it is the screenplay that really disappoints. Dorothy Farnum was forced to fictionalize Jenny Lind’s unexciting life, but produces only a hackneyed tale involving blindness brought on by being hit on the head with a bottle. 

    MGM scored something of a coup by persuading the venerable Carrie Jacobs-Bond to contribute the song ostensibly written by Denny’s character, but otherwise the newly-written score is workaday. This is in contrast to the songs by Donizetti and Bellini. The studio had put a toe in the water of Grand Opera in Call of the Flesh, and continues the experiment here. Further steps were curtailed, however, by the 1932 moratorium. 

    By all accounts, Jenny Lind (1931), the French remake of A Lady’s Morals, was a better film. Running slightly longer, it was directed by the talented Arthur Robison and playwright Jacques Deval worked on the screenplay.

  • Madam Satan

    Some Thoughts

    Madam Satan is a fascinating film. Fascinating in the sense that, while it is really not very good at all, it is almost impossible to look away from. And the nagging thought, while watching it, is: what were they thinking?

    Angela (Kay Johnson) as Madam Satan, vamps it up for an unsuspecting Bob (Reginal Denny in a miniskirt)

    This only applies to the second half, of course, because Madam Satan is a little like two different films spliced together. The first fifty minutes or so are the kind of sex comedy which had been so successful for Cecil B DeMille earlier in his career; films like Don’t Change Your Husband (1919) and Why Change Your Wife? (1920). This is nowhere as good as those earlier films, but DeMille was seeking to find his feet in the sound era, following the melodrama of his first talkie, Dynamite (1929), by reverting to familiar territory.

    The second part of Madam Satan is something else entirely, the strangest musical made at MGM before Yolanda and the Thief came along fifteen years later to give it some competition. But while Yolanda is an extremely well-made oddity, Madam Satan is a farrago directed by someone who did not know one end of a musical from the other.

    Madam Satan is, considering the money spent on it and the records of the people involved in making it, largely incompetent. For example, the film was edited by DeMille regular Anne Bauchens, who cut all of his greatest films. But Madam Satan is filled empty space, a screen where nothing happens. And there is a moment during the sequence in Trixie’s apartment where Angela goes into the bedroom and closes the door behind her. After three seconds, the door clearly starts to reopen, but there is a cut to a shot inside the bedroom, showing Angela looking out with the door wide open. It is a jarring moment.

    Reginald Denny was a perfectly competent actor, but his line readings in Madam Satan are laboured, especially alongside the manic overacting of Roland Young, who gives the impression of being somewhere he would rather not be and desperately trying to act his way out of it.

    But it is in the extended party scene aboard the zeppelin that Madam Satan achieves genuine lunacy. The entrance of the revellers, the Ballet Mecanique, the auction–none of it makes any sense, and is clumsily staged, with choreography that is saved from looking as poor only because it is so badly photographed by, of all people, Hal Rosson.

    The sex comedy is picks up again at 1500 feet, only to be interrupted as almost the entire cast parachutes to earth, and the death of the Jazz Age is delivered in heavy-handed symbolism.

    And yet, I have watched Madam Satan four times and will probably do so again. Its special effects are genuinely impressive, and its overall effect is mesmerizing. At its heart lie the puzzles of why Angela is wasting her time on an idiot like Bob, and why DeMille did not just try a musical version of The Squaw Man. Oh, the humanity.

  • Love in the Rough

    Some Thoughts

    The 1925 play Spring Fever was made into a silent film comedy in 1927. Three years later it became the first film musical about golf, just beating Paramount’s Follow Thru (1930) into cinemas.

    Perhaps a more significant first for Charles F Reisner’s film is the fact that it contains a production number, admittedly quite a small-scale one, shot out of doors on a real location. MGM had made musicals with location sequences before. Hallelujah, for example, opens with characters singing in a genuine cotton field. And in Montana Moon, Joan Crawford sings to some real trees while on horseback. But in Love in the Rough, Dorothy Jordan and the Biltmore Trio deliver a full song-and-dance number filmed on location at California’s Lake Norconian Club.

    Dorothy Jordan had made three period musicals with Ramon Novarro in the previous twelve months, becoming increasingly virginal and irritating in each one. She is clearly much happier in a modern setting, and gives a much more engaging performance. The dance skills she had honed in Broadway shows come to the fore in the aforementioned ‘I’m Doing that Thing (Falling in Love)’ routine, before giving way to a brief display by Earl ‘Snakehip’ Turner.

    ‘I’m Learning a Lot from You’ is an interesting number. Performed by two romantic couples–one serious, one comic–it represents an early example of the courtship-through-dance trope that musicals would use so effectively later on; think, for example, of Gene Kelly and Vera-Ellen singing and dancing ‘Main Street in On the Town.

    Love in the Rough, despite being about golf, remains an enjoyable eighty-four minutes. Benny Rubin’s ethnic schtick (Russian-Jewish this time) is pretty good, aided by a pairing with bit-part player Jack Raymond as another caddy from the Old Country and some sparkling Yiddish patter. It is also fascinating to watch veteran J C Nugent as Mr Waters, the protagonist’s boss. In the early scenes in particular, he genuinely seems to be making up his dialogue as he goes along. Either that, or no one had thought to show him the script until just before saying Action.

    But Love in the Rough also points towards one of the problems that contributed to the public tiring of musicals. Robert Montgomery and Dorothy Jordan are pleasant enough singing ‘Go Home and Tell Your Mother’, but they are still giving the performances of amateur singers. MGM had not yet learnt that the musical was a form that required professionals who could really dance and sing (or be dubbed to make it appear they could sing). 

  • Free and Easy

    Opinion

    There are things to enjoy in Free and Easy, but it is a film whose final shot is heartbreaking, and not for the hoaky reasons intended by the filmmakers. Buster Keaton’s character, Elmer Butts, has failed to get the girl he loves. Dressed in a ridiculous uniform and in Pagliacciesque clown makeup, Keaton gazes off-camera at Anita Page with a look of utter despondency, then raises his eyes to heaven. It is probably the most downbeat ending ever given to a musical, and that includes West Side Story (1961 and 2021).

    A tragic Buster Keaton is just wrong

    It has been suggested that Keaton is looking, not at his co-star, but at his life as one of the preeminent filmmakers in Hollywood (or anywhere else) disappearing in front of his eyes. It is as though the full implications of what he has given up by signing a contract with MGM is becoming clear for the first time in front of our eyes. Symbolically, Keaton loses the girl for the first time in his career, just as he has lost his independence and potential for creativity.

    Free and Easy was Keaton’s first talking picture, and the first since his earliest days when he had played no real part in its development. The opening titles claim the film as A Buster Keaton Production, but this would seem to have meant little in practice. The film was directed by Edward Sedgwick, a friend of Keaton’s and another comedy specialist who failed to find a settled place at Hollywood’s most successful studio.

    Keaton turns in a professional performance, but he is not playing a Buster Keaton character: in his own films he was never a loser. The finale suggests that Metro were under the impression they had signed Chaplin or Harry Langdon. Left to his own devices, Keaton would probably have made a successful transition to sound: his baritone voice is effective both speaking and singing, and would not have impeded his gag-based comedy.

    Ma Plunkett (Trixie Friganza) and Elmer (Buster Keaton) perform ‘Oh King, Oh Queen’

    The biggest revelation in Free and Easy is Trixie Friganza as the stage mother from hell, Ma Plunkett. Friganza had been a vaudeville star for many years and the film captures some of the talent that made her stage career such a success. 

    Anita Page and Robert Montgomery (who does get the girl) stand around looking attractive, and the film features cameos by a number of MGM luminaries. One of the more interesting aspects of Free and Easy is the glimpse it gives of the Metro studio during the transition to sound.

  • Montana Moon

    Opinion

    Several commentators on Montana Moon have focused on the inadequacy of its sound recording. Richard Barrios, for example, points out to “Joan Crawford singing on horseback zillions of feet away from the camera sounding just as loud as the cowboy chorus warbling in the foreground. This may, in part, be attributable to shooting many sequences away from the soundstage. The number cited by Barrios, ‘Montana Moon,’ was filmed on location, enabling the distance he mentions. The staging may have been decided weeks after the recording for playback was made, resulting in the dissonance of sound and image.

    Montana Moon gets little love from the few writers on early musicals. Edwin M Bradley goes so far as to claim that Joan Crawford “is not pleasingly photographed by the usually reliable William Daniels,” which is palpably untrue.

    Gay young thing Joan (Joan Crawford), backlit by William Daniels

    For my part, while the plot of Montana Moon is clearly nonsensical, I find it far more watchable than its immediate Metro musical predecessor, Lord Byron of Broadway. It is well-photographed (whatever Bradley says) and better-acted than many films of the period. And if Johnny Mack Brown is no great leading man, he is John Barrymore compared to Charles Kaley.

    The songs provided by Stothart-Grey and Freed-Brown are mediocre but inoffensive, and in a couple of cases difficult to attribute. Crawford, as always, does her best with the talent she has, but much of the singing is left to supporting player Cliff Edwards, the world’s most-unlikely cowboy until you look at Benny Rubin (check out Rubin in the closing shot, grinning away as if he lived on horseback).

    Larry (Johnny Mack Brown) carries off Joan, while Bloom (Benny Rubin) looks on

    Montana Moon, in addition to William Daniels, had some classy people working offscreen. Director Mal St Clair was past his best, but he and editor Carl Pierson pace the picture quite well, while costumes were provided by Adrian.

    Often cited as the first Singing Cowboy film, Montana Moon does not deserve a high reputation, but it does merit a better one than it has.

  • They Learned About Women

    Opinion

    They Learned About Women is a contender for the worst title ever given to a film musical. ‘Playing the Field’ and ‘Take It Big’ were other suggested titles, but undoubtedly lend themselves to innuendo. The other contender, ‘The Pennant-Winning Battery’ would arguably have been worse.

    Van and Schickel were very popular entertainers, and their musical performances give an inkling of why they were so liked. But they were no great shakes as actors and it seems likely they would have gone the same way as the Duncan Sisters after It’s a Great Life, if Schickel’s untimely death had no rendered the matter moot.  

    Sam (Benny Rubin), Jack (Joe Schickel) and Tim (Tom Dugan) at the start of a new season. Jerry (Gus Van) is AWOL.

    They Learned About Women was the second Metro musical outing for the songwriting team of Milton Ager and Jack Yellen, and is notable for being the first of the studio’s musicals with a score entirely written by one team. These remained a rarity for the next forty years. It’s a fairly average set of numbers, though ‘Ten Sweet Mamas’ is notable for several reasons. It is a very early integrated number, in two senses: it is sung by Gus Van not on a stage, but in a shower room, with the chorus engaged in their ablutions while singing; Van washes himself then lies face down on a massage table. 

    The song is also integrated in the way it comments on the themes and plot

    Jerry tells the other players all about his Ten Sweet Mamas

    of the film. ‘Ten Sweet Mamas’ is a variation on ‘Ten Green Bottles,’ with the number of mamas reducing throughout the song; in fact, Van starts singing at the seven point. The song’s subject is unfaithfulness, ostensibly female (“Can’t trust a woman/I have found”), though in fact the blame swings both ways (he loses his last mama because she catches him with his wife). The lyrics foreshadow Jack’s fickleness and Daisy’s duplicity. The shower room setting, coyly shot though it is, positions the film as pre-code, as does the lyric “Had two sweet mamas for my jelly roll,” which was a euphemism for sexual intercourse. 

    The film’s other highpoint is its one production number, ‘Harlem Madness,’ which gave Nina Mae McKinney, the breakout star of Hallelujah, her second and final opportunity to shine. Her singing and dancing is joyously eccentric enough to merit the song’s title.

    Nina Mae McKinney gives it her all in ‘Harlem Madness’

    The direction in They Learned About Women is fairly lacklustre, even though it took two directors to achieve it. It was far from unusual at MGM, at that time, for one director to complete another’s film, but it seems unclear why, on this occasion, Conway and Wood were given a shared credit.

    Bessie Love works hard, as always, but there are diminishing returns for her third dose of heartbreak in a year. Frankly, Jerry is as big a chump as Terry in Chasing Rainbows; she would probably have been better off with Jerry.

  • Hallelujah (1929)

    King Vidor directed one of the most iconic sequences in any film musical, when Judy Garland sings ‘Over the Rainbow’ in The Wizard of Oz, though his work on the film was uncredited. Ten years earlier Vidor had made his only other, more extended, contribution to the genre when he devised and directed Hallelujah, Metro’s first all-Black musical.

    Daniel J Haynes as Zeke, picking cotton in the opening scene of Hallelujah

    Most of the MGM directors who excelled in film musicals–Vincente Minnelli, Gene Kelly, Stanley Donen, Charles Walters–were inextricably linked to the genre, even if they later or occasionally branched out into other areas. Even Rouben Mamoulian had a background in film and stage musicals before undertaking Summer Holiday. King Vidor is the only director of prestige dramas to have made a substantial contribution to Metro’s musical tradition.

    Hallelujah could not, as Ethan Mordden suggests in The Hollywood Musical, have been less like a musical in the Broadway Melody tradition. Set in and around the cotton plantations of the American South, it is a story of sin and redemption, intended by Vidor to say something serious about, and present an accurate picture of, “the Negro race”. Inevitably, stereotypes and racist tropes of the time are not absent from a film written and made by white people, but Hallelujah is generally acknowledged as a sincere effort to show Black characters as people rather than types, especially in their experience of grief and passion (Donald Bogle,Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, & Bucks, 1984). 

    It is also, in Rick Altman’s view, the first masterpiece of the folk musical genre, with its focus on togetherness and community (The American Film Musical, 1987). Unlike its predecessor, The Broadway Melody, Vidor’s film presents characters in everyday settings, rather than the showbiz world that lends itself to song and dance; it is an attempt to tell a story through the music of the community represented. Most of the songs are spiritual in nature, less concerned with performance than with the spontaneous expression of religious faith. Song expresses emotions that cannot be enunciated any other way.

    A repentant Zeke sings ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’

    Vidor’s vision was compromised by the studio’s insistence on incorporating two numbers written by Irving Berlin, to improve the picture’s commercial potential. ‘Waiting at the End of the Road’ is a pseudo-spiritual, sung by Zeke and Spunk when they set off to sell the cotton, and reprised when Zeke preaches. ‘Swanee Shuffle’ is sung by Nina Mae McKinney and is at least appropriate to her character’s character. 

    Dance is also character-driven in Hallelujah. ‘Dance 1’ is a tap dance performed as a spontaneous outburst of joy by children at a family gathering, while McKinney’s ‘Dance 2’ reveals Chick’s inner nature, as well as performing the narrative function of enticing Zeke.   

    Much of Hallelujah was filmed on location in Tennessee and Arkansas, giving it a sense of space and fluidity very different from most of its contemporaries. This was achieved by the decision to film the location sequences without sound, and to add the songs and dialogue later, Back in Hollywood. The price of freeing the camera in this way was a torturous six-month post-production period in which an approach to synchronizing sound and image had to be improvised on the hoof.

    Bogle is right in calling Hallelujah‘s story akin to “operatic absurdity” and it can never be more than a white humanist’s vision of a culture known only from the outside. It is, nonetheless, one of the first Hollywood masterpieces of the sound era and the first musical film of real substance.       

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