February musicals. February musicals were meant to perk up winter, and so why not close the month with West Side Story (1961), directed by Robert Wise? Add to this that 2020 will see a remake of this film directed by Stephen Spielberg. Can musicals do tragedy?

Pauline Kael's review scorched the earth: The movie was "frenzied hokum," the dialogue was "painfully old-fashioned and mawkish," the dancing was "simpering, sickly romantic ballet," and the "machine-tooled" Natalie Wood was "so perfectly banal she destroys all thoughts of love."

I wonder what Pauline Kael really thought of the film. Actually, I have some sympathy with what she says. The film is hokey. It is also colourful, chippy, and most certainly well-intentioned. Take for example, the requisite balcony scene (the story is, after all, derived from Romeo and Juliet). Here the fire escapes of the New York tenements serve to remind us of the fire burning among the young and disparate peoples of the city, and their desire for escape. The bannister bars remind us that this city is a prison, a place of anger and resentment. The two lovers are trapped. There is no way out. The racial antagonism remains and it is not difficult to understand why the story continues to resonate. 

I had not seen the film for many years, since the 1960s, and yet many of the set pieces stayed with me - Officer Krupe, America, Tonight, and so on. Sure the candy shop seems rather naive now, but it does connect with the previous decade's Bowery Boys films with Leo Gorcey and Huntz Hall. The Bowery Boys frequented the soda shop run by Louis, and the Jets in West Side Story hang out at Doc's candy store. What the Bowery Boys films left unsaid, that the world of city gangs is violent and brutish, finds voice in West Side Story. The scurrying of the gang members over steel and wire fences, through sewers, and across concrete playgrounds accentuate the lower depths. 

The music is memorable, even catchy, and the dancing is earnest. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the dancing is that it serves to surface antagonisms. We are a long way from Astaire/Rogers or Gene Kelly dancing with Tom and Jerry.

 

Now that's entertainment. The Band Wagon (1953), directed by Vincente Minnelli. Fred Astaire was 53 when he made this film, and his age figures in the plot. An aging song and dance man finds himself paired with a young and talented ballet dancer, and she is tall (Cyd Charisse)! They do not get along. Not only are they separated by age, but they also come from different artistic backgrounds. And she is tall! Then they take a buggy ride into Central Park and go "Dancing in the Dark." This sequence brings them together, romance blossoms, dances ensue, and the travelling group has a success on Broadway. Dance breaks barriers, brings people together, blends the public and private. Dance creates community. Through dance love blossoms. The film has many parts, many dances, the carnival sequence, the noir-tinged detective dance, the triplets, the rehearsals, the dance in the dark, and so on. But all this disparate stuff comes together because - you guessed it - that's entertainment.

Singin’ in the Rain, "all elements in this rainbow program are carefully contrived and guaranteed to lift the dolors of winter and put you in a buttercup mood." That is Bosley Crowther writing in the New York Times about the 1952 film, Singin' in the Rain. Directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen, Singin' in the Rain is a feast of colour and movement and sound. It is also a nice take on the art of film. The plot turns on the transition in 1929 from silent film to sound, and we have loving homage to early films with stars such as Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks, John Gilbert, and Greta Garbo. We even have a strange dance sequence in which Cyd Charisse, dressed provocatively in green, invokes Louise Brooks while performing a decidedly modern (not 1920s) dance with partner Kelly. The film is buoyant as two set pieces, "Make Em Dance" and "Good Morning," exemplify. The film pulls out all the stops. It is lavish and upbeat. The energy is palpable as when Donald O'Connor dances up a wall or Gene Kelly splashes deliriously in puddles. Jean Hagen invests her role with a verve and stridency just right for this silent star whose voice is decidedly unsuitable for sound pictures. And of course the question of cinema as an art form finds a celebratory answer. The film blends old and new in its play with form. Oh, and I neglected to mention the Busby Berkeley bits too.

Top Hat (1935), directed by Mark Sandrich. Top Hat is the 4th film with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. In total, they made 10 films. Top Hat is probably the best known of these films. As the lyrics to the title song indicate, this is a film that simply "reeks with class," in more than one sense of that word. ‘Class’ indicates that the people who populate this film are not only classy, they are also of the upper class, wealthy and artsy. They have servants. ‘Class’ also refers to style. These people have style as their clothes and their surroundings indicate. In other words, this is a film about the well-to-do and the sophisticated. It takes its place alongside a long tradition of comedy that goes back at least to the society plays in the Restoration and 18th Century, plays by the likes of Congreve, Sheridan, and others. Like those long-ago comedies, the plot of Top Hat is baroque; it is convoluted, turning on misunderstandings. These misunderstandings have to do with relations between the sexes, and the plot turns on sexual dalliance and suggestions of transgression. It has its naughty side. This film is playful in its dealings with husbands and wives and those who deviate from the norms of society. One example is Erik Rhodes as Alberto Beddini. Beddini is clearly a gay man. His “marriage” to Dale Tremont (Ginger Rogers) amounts to an act of chivalry, not an act of love.

Comedy is a social mode. It begins with a breakdown in a community and ends with a restoration of order in the community. The restoration of order often takes the form of a marriage or a dance. In dance, everything is executed with skill, grace, and timing. Dance communicates order. So too does marriage. After a plot that has played with marriage breakdown (divorce and infidelity), the action rounds to a marriage that signals good breeding and sound morality. Society once again assumes its acceptable form. Beginning and ending with feet, the film is about dance and soul. The feet keep us grounded, fleet, fast, and flourishing.

The combining of drawing room comedy with show business people is also noteworthy. This is America and in America show business is not necessarily a dubious profession. These show people are also society people. They inhabit a fantasy world that gathers America, Great Britain, and Italy together. Venice becomes a fantasy space where class comes together. In this Venice, people swim leisurely in the canals! People who work in the entertainment business can represent working people, yet they are also members of an elite group. The fantasy is that just plain folk can be rich, elegant, sophisticated, and successful.

The fantasy resonates because of the film’s location smack in the middle of the Great Depression. This is a film to lift the spirits. It presents a wish fulfillment world in which love triumphs. In other words, this is the world we might dream about, but never experience in reality. As a dream, the film takes the viewer out of reality for the 100 or so minutes of its running time. For this time, make believe wins the day.

The clothes and make-up and hairstyles, as well as the sets communicate this make believe. No one has hair as smooth and perfectly set as Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers. No man has lips as smoothly drawn with lipstick as Fred Astaire. No one wears clothes like Ginger Rogers. The people are live versions of the Art Deco sets. Art Deco exhibits smooth, uncluttered, soft and rounded and long lines. The sinuous lines of dancers are examples of Art Deco. Some of Fred Astaire’s poses during his dances exhibit the Art Deco lines, as do his top hat and tails that accentuate the long lean line and along with the lighting sometimes present a silhouette effect. The Art Deco geometric shapes and lavish decoration have something of a futuristic look, accentuating the unreality of the action. No gondola in the actual Venice looks exactly like the gondolas we see in Top Hat. Art Deco is a style of art that communicates elegance, luxury, and exuberance. It is clean and clear. It is an expression of freshness; it looks forward to a utopian future. This may explain its rise during the Depression years. Art Deco counters the brute facts of reality with a dream of better times.

 Some westerns for February.

A couple of westerns: Wild Horse Canyon (1925, directed by Ben F. Wilson, and Outlaw Women (1952), directed by stalwart Sam Newfield and Ron Ormond. Wild Horse Canyon is noteworthy for star Yakima Canutt’s nifty mounts on his horse and his nifty gun-twirling. The film also has some shots, especially near the end, that turn up in several B westerns of the 1930s. I watched the Alpha Video DVD, and Alpha is not known for the quality of its prints. This one is missing some 10 minutes and, although passable, is grainy and worn. Outlaw Women is a Lippert Production and shows it. The town of Las Mujeres (the women), is run by women, and this pretty much lets you know that the film tries to shift attention from men to women in the old west. Marie Windsor is Iron Mae McLeod; she runs the saloon (what else?) and she runs the town. The saloon bouncer is a tough woman who strikes matches with her teeth and tosses men about. This may sound good, but of course men arrive in town who manage to take centre stage, as it were. Something of a novelty western, Outlaw Women tries hard. It too is passable. We have gambling, saloon fights (think Destry Rides Again), stagecoach robbery, Sam Bass, some singing, and females with guns.

Valley of the Sun (1942), directed by George Marshall. Marshall made a few westerns with comedy, most notably Destry Rides Again (1939). Valley of the Sun is one of these, with Lucille Ball demonstrating the comedic skills that would flower in the next decade with the TV show, I Love Lucy. Here, she is Christine Larson, owner of a café who is about to marry the local Indian Agent, Jim Sawyer (Dean Jagger). Unbeknownst to her, Agent Sawyer has been cheating the Indians out of money and food. Then Jonathan Ware (James Craig) arrives. He is an army scout who has gone rogue by helping two Indians who were incarcerated on false claims of criminality to escape. You can guess what transpires. After some hijinks with a stagecoach, shots of Native people dancing, including the hoop dance, a dusty fistfight, and riding hither and yon, oh and some shooting, things get sorted out. This is a comedy and so no one is inveterately bad. The location shooting is fine, the battles staged well, and the fight between Geronimo (Tom Tyler) and Jim is unusual for this type of western. Indeed, Geronimo is unusual as played by Mr. Tyler. The film tries to present the Native people as more than just cannon fodder. It tries hard, but finds difficulty, as a teacher from my childhood used to say. As a western from the early 40s, Valley of the Sun is pleasantly engaging.

The Tall Texan (1953), directed by Elmo Williams. This is a low budget western from Lippert Productions that manages to overcome its low budget and difficult filming. The plot reminds us of The Treasure of Sierra Madre (1948) and Lust for Gold (1949). A small band of misfits and layabouts manage to find a stream that has gold in it, but the stream flows through a Native American burial ground. The Natives place spears in the ground to mark the boundary beyond which the gold diggers/panners must not go. You know the rest. Despite not having much dialogue in the film, the Native people are careful and intelligent. The eponymous character is Ben Trask (Lloyd Bridges), a Texan being taken back to stand trial for murdering his brother. Of course, he is innocent. Others include the travelling salesman and trickster Joshua Tinnen (Luther Adler), the sea captain Theodore Bess (Lee J. Cobb), the coach driver Carney (Syd Saylor), the sheriff Chadbourne (Samuel Herrick), and the woman Laura Thompson (Marie Windsor). The whole thing has a noirish feel to it, as if Stagecoach was crossed with Pursued and given The Treasure of Sierra Madre treatment. Joseph Biroc’s cinematography is crisp, and the location shooting is impressive. For a small, low-budget western, this one is a winner.

Last of the Comanches (1953), directed by Andre DeToth. DeToth made a few interesting westerns with Randolph Scott. This is not one of them. Here we have fast-talking Broderick Crawford as Sergeant Matt Trainor who leads a small and motley band of survivors across the desert. They struggle to find water, and they must be vigilant because Natives threaten to overwhelm them. The plot is predictable right down to the last minutes when the Cavalry arrives to save the day. The characters are stock, and no one, aside from Crawford, has much to do or say. As for Crawford, he is in his Highway Patrol mode, and he barks out orders and moves his girth around with admirable dexterity. The second unit director is Yakima Canutt, and so the action is well done, even if some of what we see reminds us of Stagecoach (1939). The cinematography, courtesy of Charles Lawton, Jr. and Ray Cory, is impressive, if we set aside some early process shots. The Native Americans provide targets in the shooting gallery for the action sequences. Films like this are wearisome, although I suppose it is useful to have reminders such as Last of the Comanches of the human failure to accept difference. In this film, we have a feeble attempt to redress the balance and present one ‘Indian’ as trustworthy and heroic. This is the boy Little Knife, played by New York-born Johnny Stewart! Familiar faces, such as Barbara Hale, Mickey Shaughnessy, Chubby Johnson, Lloyd Bridges, and Martin Milner make appearances, but none of these actors has much to do other than shoot, ride, and grimace. The film is a remake of Zoltan Korda’s Sahara (1943).

The Stand at Apache River (1953), directed by Lee Sholem. Like many westerns of the era, this is a siege western. A small band of people find themselves in a way station surrounded by Apaches. For the most part, the characters are stock and the action predictable. We do, however, have an attempt to give the attackers more screen time than usual, and to make them a bit more complex than usual. One of the men in the Way Station, Lance Dakota (Stephen McNally), expresses some sympathy for the attackers, remarking that white people take the Indians’ land, kill them, and when they fight back, the White men call this murder. Inside the Station, we have familiar conflicts between those who hate the Native people and those who sympathize, between the sexes, and between Lance, who is a sheriff, and his prisoner, Greiner (Russell Johnson). Colonel Morsby (Hugh Marlowe) is the Indian-hater. Among the group are two women, Ann Kenyon (Jaclynne Greene), wife of the Station’s proprietor, Tom (Hugh O’Brien), and Valerie Kendrick (Julie Adams) who is on her way to get married to someone she does not love. The appeal of such siege westerns for their studios was the modest budgets they called for since most of the filming is on sets, in this case inside the Station. In other words, such westerns are rather static; they do not have the sweep and grandeur we associate with the westerns of Ford or Mann or Boetticher. Still and all, this is a watchable second tier western from the 1950s.

Southwest Passage (1954, aka Camel Corps), directed by Ray Nazarro. Originally filmed in 3D, this western’s special feature comes in the form of camels and their “Arabian” handlers. These camels are on a trek across the desert, a test of their reliability for use by the American Cavalry. Along for the journey are Lilly (Joanne Dru) and Clint McDonald (John Ireland), two felons on the run from the law. Clint is posing as Dr. Elias P. Stanton (Morris Ankrum). Leading the band of cavalrymen and assorted others is Edward Beale (Rod Cameron). The film would be more interesting had the camels and their handlers had more to do with the action. They are, however, merely motivation for the trek across the desert. The focus is on Clint and Lilly and their troubled relationship. The filming is competent enough. Director Nazarro made plenty of westerns both before and after this one, perhaps most notably Cripple Creek (1952), Kansas Pacific (1953), and Domino Kid (1957). The characters are familiar, and the plot predictable. Well, almost predictable. The development of the love triangle works out a bit differently than we might expect. This is not a particularly distinguished western; it could have been more interesting had it dealt more with the Muslim characters and the camels. We do have moments of racial bias, especially expressed by the whip-snapping muleskinner, Matt Carroll (John Dehner). But this is a side-issue here. More upfront is Joanne Dru’s feisty leading lady who shoots as well or better than the men with whom she travels. Of course, we have the obligatory bathing scene, but in this one the lady sports a pistol!

Saskatchewan (1954), directed by Raoul Walsh. Hollywood has had a fanciful notion of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who “always get their man” since the silent era. Here Walsh offers the familiar picture of red-coated, Smokey the Bear Hat-wearing men who protect a land that differs from the land below the 49^th Parallel in its kindly treatment of First nations people. Fanciful indeed. Perhaps not Walsh’s finest effort, Saskatchewan nevertheless manages to tell a familiar story with likeable characters, Alan Ladd as Thomas O’Rourke who has been raised by the Cree, Jay Silverheels as Cajou, O’Rourke’s brother, Shelley Winters as Grace Markey, J. Carroll Naish as the Metis Batoche, and Hugh O’Brien as the American Marshal Carl Smith. The scenery, not the province Saskatchewan, but the montainous terrain around present-day Banff and Lake Louise, is impressive. The action sequences are efficient, as you would expect with Walsh. The plot is preposterous, but colourful. 

Ambush at Cimarron Pass (1958), directed by Jodie Copelan. Here is another one about a rag-tag band trying to make it to a Fort on foot while being threatened by Indians. This time the Indians are after the repeating rifles the small band of cavalrymen are carrying. This band meets with another small band of cattlemen and former Confederates as well as a Mexican woman whom the Indians deliver to them as some sort of bait. The action is predictable, the script rather wooden, and the action spotty. Transitions from shots on studio sets to location shots are awkward. The acting is okay; even the young Clint Eastwood as a hothead southerner is not too bad. The lead is Scott Brady, an actor (brother of Lawrence Tierney) who appeared in quite a few westerns in the 1950s, including Johnny Guitar (1954). All in all, this is a film that does not fit its time. The depiction of Native people is retrograde; after all, Delmer Daves’s Broken Arrow had appeared as early as 1950. My advice: give this one a miss.