July is here and so are a random set of mini reviews.

Death Takes a Holiday (1934), directed by Mitchell Leisen. Death takes a three-day holiday posing as Prince Sirki. He wishes to know what it is like to be human. He finds out. This is a strange one. Death becomes infatuated with Grazia (Evelyn Venable), a young woman who loves life and is infatuated with death. Frederic March as the titular Death is excellent. The filming has a creepy look suitable to the subject. Money, war, and love are the three “games” humans play, although for three days war is put on hold, money talks, and love will out. The sets are opulent, the dialogue clever, and the performances fine. 

 

The Villain Still Pursued Her (1940), directed by Edward F. Cline. Here is one for the ages, a parody of conventional Victorian melodrama with overly formal speech and over-the-top characters who regularly break the fourth wall to speak to the audience. The narrative has an innocent mother (Margaret Hamilton) and daughter (Anita Louise) set upon by the villainous lawyer Cribbs (Alan Mowbray), complete with black cape and large moustache. Cribbs has design upon the daughter and upon the house of mother and daughter and the larger fortune of the Middleton’s who hold the mortgage on the mother and daughter’s house. When he appears onscreen, an unseen audience sets about hissing. Edward Middleton (Richard Cromwell) is the innocent young son who falls into Cribbs’s trap and becomes an inebriate. We also have Edward’s friend, William Dalton (Buster Keaton), who finds it difficult to remember his own name. The film has two breaks in the narrative while title cards call members of the audience to fetch their children or go to their cars. Keaton has a couple of pratfalls, and we have the obligatory scene of pies tossed into people’s faces. This is a strange little film in which everyone goes about performing with studied seriousness. The whole concoction is directed by Edward F. Cline, a director who also worked several times with the likes of W. C. Fields and Wheeler and Woolsey.

 

Dishonoured Lady (1947), directed by Robert Stevenson. This melodrama turns on psychiatry. We have beautiful Manhattan magazine editor, Madeleine Damien (Hedy Lamarr), suffering from thoughts of suicide. In fact, the film opens with a dramatic attempt on her part to commit suicide. At the advice of her therapist, Dr. Richard Caleb (Morris Carnovsky), Madeleine gives up her job and penthouse to move to Greenwich Village and become an artist. Here she meets a young doctor doing research. This is David Cousins (Dennis O’Keefe). Of course, they fall in love. But wealthy lothario Felix Courtland (John Loder) desires Madeleine, and he does his best to seduce her. She is in his house when young Jack Garet (William Lundigan), arrives and murders Mr. Courtland. The police suspect Madeleine and she ends up on trial for murder. She refuses to defend herself because David appears to have abandoned her, and she thinks she has nothing to live for. The rest you can figure out easily. Love will win the day. This is not a melodrama without interest. It has touches of noir. It has Margaret Hamilton as a landlady. It has Hedy Lamarr. 

 

Woman in the Dark (1934), directed by Phil Rosen. Poverty Row sometimes produced gems, and Woman in the Dark shines in its small way. Pipe-puffing John Bradley (Ralph Bellamy) has just got out of prison. He has spent three years behind bars for manslaughter; he killed a man in a bar fight. Despite a fierce temper, John is a good fellow. Helen Grant (Nell O’Day) has her sights set on John, but he is taken by the sultry Louise Loring (Fay Wray) who is on the run from wealthy lothario Tony Robson (Melvyn Douglas). The action plays out over a night during which John gets in trouble and ends up on the lam with Louise. Roscoe Ates as Tommy Logan provides some needless humour. As things transpire, Louise goes back to Robson, but just so she can uncover the truth of Robson’s evil ways. The film was released just after the Hollywood Code tried to tame the more raunchy elements of pre-code films, but Woman in the Dark manages to have quite a few racy bits, including the dress that insists on falling from Fay Wray’s shoulder, the focus on Miss Wray’s legs, or the disrobing scene. We also have some use of flashback that is noteworthy. 

 

Chamber of Horrors/aka The Door with Seven Locks (1940), directed by Norman Lee. This is a surprisingly effective little murder mystery with familiar ingredients: gothic mansion, mute and large butler, somewhat mad doctor, adventurous woman, dashing young man, ditzy female sidekick, sleepy detective, locked room, sinister cloaked figure sneaking about in the shadows. It also has a torture chamber and a tricky goblet. Oh, and a door with seven locks, the keys to which are what turn the plot. The villain, Dr. Manetta (Leslie Banks), expresses remorse at having to kill the fetching June Lansdowne (Lilli Palmer), remarking, “She plays Chopin delightfully.” The atmosphere works well enough, the actors enjoy themselves, the fights are furious, and the whole package is, despite the familiar trappings, quite enjoyable. 

The Cheat (1931), directed by George Abbott. Tallulah Bankhead stars as Elsa Carlyle, young wife of Jeffrey (Harvey Stephens). Elsa lives recklessly, losing much money gambling, losing money from a charity bazaar, and then turning to sly, sadistic Harvey Livingstone (Irving Pichel) for help. Livingstone is a twisted orientalist who has Japanese servants, a large statue of Yama, god of destruction, and a cabinet in which he places small dolls that represent the women he has enjoyed! These dolls, by the way, have a symbol etched or burned into their base that indicates that Livingstone possesses these women. This is all very kinky and unpleasant and pre-code. Poor Elsa finds herself entangled in Livingstone’s clutches, and when she tries to escape from his unwanted and aggressive embraces, he brands her chest in a startling scene. The branding represents Livingstone’s rape of Elsa. The final scene of this potboiler takes place in a courtroom where Jeffrey is on trial for shooting (but not killing) Livingstone. The stalwart Jeffrey is taking the blame for something his wife has done, and she finally blurts out that she is the guilty one, not her husband. She exposes the brand on her chest and the courtroom crowd goes into a frenzy, attacking Livingstone who has been sitting and smugly smiling at events. The film presents us with a nasty bit of orientalism. The lavish dance sequence in the middle of events is as obvious as one could look for. In all, the film meshes Japanese, Chinese, and Indian cultures in its orientalist unpleasantness.

 

Sin Takes a Holiday (1930), directed by Paul L. Stein. “Oh, Lady --- what clothes!” This is the tag line for Sin Takes a Holiday, and it cues us to the real interest in many of these pre-code films: the clothes the women wear. Silks, satins, and furs adorn the lovely women who inhabit art deco apartments giving Depression-era audiences something to wish for. Here the story has young secretary, Sylvia Brenner (Constance Bennett), working for a womanizing divorce lawyer, Gaylord Stanton (Kenneth MacKenna) who asks her to marry him just so he can keep on seducing other married women without having to worry about having to marry one of the women he seduces. Sound naughty? Well, this is pre-code naughtiness. After accepting his offer of marriage, Sylvia heads for Paris where she has an affair with the dashing Reggie Durant (Basil Rathbone). Reggie has been a ladies’ man, but he falls in love with Sylvia. She, however, has her sights set on her husband-in-name Gaylord. Perhaps the most noteworthy naughty aspect of this film is the character, Grace Lawrence (Rita LaRoy). Grace makes a living from marrying wealthy men, divorcing them, taking alimony, finding another rich sap, marrying him, then divorcing, and so on. She intends for Gaylord to be husband #3. As pre-code films go, this one is passable.

 

Millie (1931), directed by John Francis Dillon. “Impressively lousy,” this is how Danny Reid describes Millie. The melodrama follows the eponymous Millie (Helen Twelvetrees) from her late adolescence to middle age. She marries into a wealthy family, divorces after she discovers her husband cheating, is courted by another wealthy man, takes up with reporter Tommy, discovers Tommy also cheats, is friends with two sharp women, discovers her daughter, at 16, is set upon by the wealthy man who failed to seduce Millie, and finally finds herself on trial for murder. She did indeed commit the murder, but the jury acquits her because she shot the man who tried to seduce her young daughter. This is pre-code stuff, sexual inuendo, loose living, and getting away with murder. This is a pot boiler. Despite the rather over-heated plot and characters, the film manages to say something, 1930s style, about women, independence, and sexual predation. This film is interesting as a record of its time.

 

Kept Husbands (1931), directed by Lloyd Bacon. Before he was a cowboy, Joel McCrea was a “kept husband” in this pre-code romance about an earnest young man who finds himself married to a wealthy spoiled brat. The spoiled brat is Dot Parker (Dorothy Mackaill), daughter of Arthur Parker (Robert McQuade), steel magnate, and she thinks nothing of asking her father for ten thousand bucks here and another several thousand there. For everything to turn out right, young Robert Brunton (Joel McCrea) will have to find a backbone and take control of his life. Going home to mother just won’t cut it. As something of a one-man chorus, we have Hughie Hanready (Ned Sparks, he of the strident voice). The hint of adultery when Dot spends a long night with Charlie Bates (Bryant Washburn) is typical pre-code titillation. On the whole, this is tepid stuff, interesting as a period piece. But without a lot of staying power. There are a few good lines, and an unflattering portrait of the wealthy to keep us interested, but we know all too well how things will work out.

 

The Lady Refuses (1931), directed by George Archainbaud. Archainbaud went on to glory as director of several Hopalong Cassidy films and other small budget westerns. Here he directs the irrepressible Betty Compson as a woman from the streets, June, who finds herself hired by a dapper gentleman, Sir Gerald Courtney (Gilbert Emery), to attract his son Russell (John Darrow), and draw him away from the gold-digger Berthine (Margaret Livingston). June does her job well and finds herself loved by both father and son. She rejects both of these suitors because neither of them believes she is anything more than the woman of the streets she was when Sir Gerald first met her, when she was seeking refuge from the rain and from the police. This is a nice pre-code production that does not shy away from examining the manner in which men think of women, and the difficulties women have trying to live independent lives. Much of what goes on is implied rather than shown outright, and this makes for clever film-making.

 

The Woman Between (1931), directed by Victor Shertzinger. The woman between in this soap opera is Julie (Lili Damita), and she is between father, John Whitcomb (O.P. Heggie) and his son Victor (Lester Vail). You see, Julie has married John and this marriage has alienated John’s son Victor who does not like his father remarrying after his mother’s death. Then, as fortune has it, Julie meets Victor on board a ship returning to the U.S. from France, and the two of them fall in love. Here we have yet another pre-code exploration of human relationships. Julie also happens to be a successful business woman, running her own fashion empire. What is a befuddled independent woman going to do? For one thing, she sings a sultry chanson. How will this Oedipal situation resolve itself? Despite its flirtation with naughty themes, The Woman Between is slight, not one of the best pre-code films by any stretch. However, it does have William (‘Wild Bill’) Elliott as an extra in one of the party scenes. And it also has a couple of irritating young women to wring the most from an awkward situation.

 

Wild Girl (1932), directed by Raoul Walsh. Filmed to resemble the experience of reading a book, Wild Girl is a mishmash of genres: western, romance, social commentary, and comedy. Somehow Walsh makes it all work out smoothly. The filming takes place in Sequoia National Park, and among the huge trees the characters look small, like fairies cavorting. Joan Bennet as the titular ‘wild girl’ meets handsome stranger Billy (Charles Farrell). She has been courted by a few men, but this Stranger is the first one she feels drawn to. For his part, the Stranger is a southerner looking for the dastard who was responsible for the death of the Stranger’s sister. This dastard just happens to be the town of Redwood’s most prominent citizen, Phineas Baldwin (Morgan Wallace), who is a slimy womanizer who has, more than once, forced himself on Salomy Jane. Cleverly filmed and well-paced, the film has a number of set pieces, from the chilling lynching scene to the scene in which Eugene Pallette playing likeable stagecoach driver Yuba Bill imitates the sounds of neighing horses. Ralph Bellamy turns up as Jack Marbury, a card shark and gambler with a heart of gold, something like the John Carradine character in Stagecoach. The story derives from Bret Harte’s short story, “Salomy Jane’s Kiss.”

 

Kameradschaft (1931), directed by G. W. Pabst. The title in English is “Comradeship,” and the film is about German and French miners working together to rescue miners trapped in a collapse deep in a mine on the French side of the German/French border. The Germans and the French have an uneasy relationship, but when the chips are down, the miners realize they are comrades and come together to help alleviate a terrible situation. The film does not focus, to any great extent, on specific characters, but rather focuses on the rescue itself. Pabst and his set designer constructed amazingly realistic sets in an old airline hangar near Berlin. The mine collapse and the rescue are dramatic and convincing, and when we take into account when the film was made, the action is even more impressive. Fire and water are much in evidence. The thrust of the film is humanity’s ability to come together in the face of disaster, and Pabst communicates his message well despite the censorship of the time, just a couple of years from the Fascist rise to power in Germany. The actors manage to convey personality even under duress. Language proves to be awkward, but ultimately no impediment to the rescue effort. This is a dazzling exercise in film making, and I dare say it has lost none of its power despite being made over 90 years ago.