a vision of paradise with a touch so light ...

    Trouble in Paradise; Paramount Pictures, 1932. Directed by Ernst Lubitsch; screenplay by Samson Raphaelson; adaptation by Grover Jones; based on A Becsületes Megtaláló (The Honest Finder), 1931 play, by Aladár László; produced by Ernst Lubitsch; cinematography by Victor Milner. Performers: Kay Francis, Miriam Hopkins, Herbert Marshall, Charlie Ruggles, Edward Everett Horton, C. Aubrey Smith, Robert Greig.
    Summary: a gentleman thief and a lady pickpocket join forces to con a beautiful perfume company heiress. Romantic entanglements and jealousies confuse the scheme. 

     Almost incredibly, we're creeping up (five years or so and counting) on the one hundredth anniversary of Ernst Lubitsch's polished jewel of a drawing room comedy/melodrama, Trouble in Paradise. The 'incredibly' part of my introductory sentence refers not to how old the film is, but how modern it is. Even the technology shows little signs of creakiness, delivered as it is with absolute assurance by the great Lubitsch, truly remarkable given the studios were still grappling with the newfangled addition of sound in movies, among other technical challenges. Remember, the film industry had only begun to go full blast for sound movies around 1929. All this is, as the man might say, fine and good, but what is it that's 'modern' about TIP? Actually timeless is just as good a descriptor, and it all lies in the film's attitudes and sensibilities, and, more important, the execution of such qualities, what they called back in the day the famed "Lubitsch Touch," often discussed and sometimes imitated but never equaled. 
     TIP is all the more timely considering the state of the film industry today, in which we're bombarded with the (mostly) bloated, homogenized, mind numbing dreck that Hollywood and Hollywood-like sources routinely churn out. TIP thus sparkles all the more as the transcendent masterpiece it is. Would that we could have such intelligence and (Old World) sophistication in movies these days. Big sigh ... As you can tell, I'm a huge fan of Trouble in Paradise, and it's difficult for me to sing its praises enough. Ergo, a recent re-watch of the Criterion DVD* has inspired me to opine a few superlatives, even if there's already a ton of postings and reviews of the film.

   Moonlight and champagne ...

    The basic question, for me anyway, is: why can’t they make movies like this anymore? Why not indeed? One reason is they don’t have Herbert Marshall, Miriam Hopkins and especially Kay Francis, and another is that there aren’t many Ernst Lubitsch’s around these days. In any case the story of Trouble in Paradise is basically that of a love triangle: a suave thief (Marshall) and his live-in partner in crime (Hopkins) conspire to fleece a rich perfume heiress (Kay Francis) but things become complicated when said thief falls in love with the mark.

    Eminently up to the task of ingratiating himself with the heiress, Herbert Marshall is suspiciously well informed about ladies’ perfumes, lipstick, rouge & clothes. Haute cuisine too. But he’s so not gay, quite the contrary. Marshall here is at the zenith of his romantic leading man powers,** oozing a silken charm that allows him to talk his way into and out of just about anything; and though Miriam Hopkins is edgy and loud – what you see is what you get – she’s still appealing in her way.

    The film’s central, and most complex character, however, is the gleamingly polished but very human Kay Francis, and it’s been asked, why would Herbert Marshall not choose the shimmering, simmering, goddess-like Francis (and all her money) over the proletarian, if attractive, Hopkins? Well, thieves have to stick together, I guess. It’s as good an answer as any.   

    But what is it that makes Trouble in Paradise such a timeless classic? *** There’s the essential amorality of all the characters and the very timely message: the rich are simple-minded, self indulgent fools, and this includes, to some extent, the more sympathetic Madame Colet (Francis), and if thieves or con artists get the better of them, we don’t really object, we sort of like it actually. This brings to mind the rather hokey scene – a rare misstep in the film’s otherwise pitch perfect tone – where the Trotskyite radical scolds Kay Francis for her extravagant lifestyle in such tough times (it is the Depression, after all). He has a point, but it’s hard to sympathize with him because he’s such a lout himself. It all serves to remind us that nothing is black and white in a Lubitsch film; he gives then takes away and we’re never quite sure where the story’s moral center of gravity lies.

    Moreover, we identify with the thieves’ excitement and intrigue — the seduction and titillation of larceny, if you will. It’s only right then that Marshall’s a thief so cool he can steal a woman’s underwear while she’s wearing it. Which rather segues nicely to the romantic element, never out of style, presented here with such panache and lightness, and yes, a hint of sentiment and real emotion too. There’s also our expectations and wishes : a good part of the appeal of Trouble in Paradise is the will they/won’t they; which will he choose; will they get away with it suspense and uncertainty which isn’t resolved until the final scene, and even then we’re not so sure.

    Indeed, though the emotional, financial and even legal stakes for the main characters are high, it’s all treated with such a deft hand that we simply sit back and enjoy the thrill of the ride and don’t bother ourselves with trifles like consequences. Trouble in Paradise then is ultimately about the process and the journey, the quest, if you like, not the destination. In short, excitement, adventure, love, crime, intrigue and, most of all, living well for its own sake.

   * I refer to the 2002 Criterion DVD, which is pretty darn good technically, but I just found out that there's a very recent (April 2026) 4K UHD & Blu-Ray Criterion re-issue, the quality of which has gotten rave reviews.
   ** Alas, Marshall's romantic leading man status would be all too fleeting: within a few years he drifted into character roles which he played the remainder of his career.  
    *** There are other delights to savor: the incomparable Deco sets, Travis Banton’s otherworldly gowns for Miss Francis, and especially the knowing repartee which is the essence of the film’s all-time classic status. Then there’s the spot-on supporting cast: the imperious C. Aubrey Smith as Giron, Madame Colet’s unscrupulous business advisor; deadpan Robert Greig as Jacques the Butler; and, most memorable of all, Edward Everett Horton and Charlie Ruggles as the two asexual, hopelessly doomed-to-failure suitors to Madame Colet.

Carib-noir: Black Moon (1934)

      Black Moon [videorecording (DVD)]; a Columbia production; Columbia Pictures Corporation presents; screenplay by Wells Root, based story written by Clements Ripley; directed by Roy William Neill; cinematography by Joseph H. August; edited by Richard Cahoon. Culver City, Calif.: Sony Pictures Home Entertainment, 2011. Originally released as a motion picture in 1934. Performers: Jack Holt; Fay Wray; Dorothy Burgess; Cora Sue Collins; Arnold Korff.   
     Summary: a young girl who lives on a tropical island loses her parents to a voodoo sacrifice, but although she manages to escape the island, a curse is put on her. Years later, as an adult, she feels a strong compulsion to return to the island to confront her past. Her husband, her daughter and her nanny go with her, but once back on the island, the woman finds herself elevated by the locals to the stature of a voodoo goddess, and she begins her inevitable descent into madness, with disastrous results for her family.

    [Minor SPOILERS in comments below]. Black Moon is a little-remembered pre-Code gem that I recently stumbled upon at the public library. I’d just seen King Kong again and wanted to watch more movies with Fay Wray. Happily my library had a copy of Black Moon. Even better, the library also had Mystery of the Wax Museum, in which Miss Wray does some screaming that gives even her famous shrieks in Kong a run for their money.

    But getting back to Black Moon, it sounded interesting and I snapped it up right away. I wasn’t disappointed, though I must admit that Miss Wray, while she looks beautiful and turns in a competent performance, doesn’t register so much because the character she plays isn’t very interesting and furthermore doesn’t have that much to do. The real revelation is Dorothy Burgess as our ill-fated heroine. She was apparently a big deal in the early Thirties but her star faded quickly in the latter part of the decade. She died of lung cancer in 1961 at the youthful age of 54, largely forgotten. The character she plays is a well-bred sort with a decidedly Brit air [1] who secretly harbors an ambition to return to the island and become a voodoo high priestess. I suspect she enjoyed playing the bad girl, and performing a scandalous dance at that! Miss Burgess’s nuanced performance is all the more impressive when we consider that she was the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Did people really grow up faster in them days? In any event I predict that Black Moon is the role for which she’ll be remembered, if she's remembered at all.

    Of course the most notorious scene in Black Moon is Miss Burgess’s voodoo high priestess dance followed by ritual sacrifice [2]. She performs said dance scantily clad and with considerable verve, and for me the similarity here is not to the better-known I Walked with a Zombie (which has its own, more subdued, voodoo ritual dance scene), but Maria Montez’s infamous cobra dance in Cobra Woman. Miss Montez’s interpretation is doubtless campier (her over-the-top costume helps) but Miss Burgess is sexier. Alas, the scene breezes by all to quickly – even in the pre-Code years the studios could only push the envelope so far [3]. 

    You could say Black Moon rode the crest of popularity of voodoo/zombie movies that were popular in the 1930s and 1940s. Comparisons with the aforementioned, and better-known, I Walked with a Zombie from nearly a decade later are inevitable, and Black Moon holds its own pretty well. My DVD copy was very clean and brings out the film's superior production values. The only mild criticism I could offer is the lack of bonus features or commentary, especially regrettable given the film's historical significance and offbeat content. Indeed, were it not for the racist depictions of the natives, I'd be tempted to dub this one a minor masterpiece. Still, Black Moon gives us lots of atmosphere [4] and intelligent story delivered in a lean 68 minutes. Recommended.  

   A minor bit of trivia: in some scenes Dorothy Burgess and Fay Wray look enough alike to be sisters. I'm not sure whether this little detail is a plus or minus. Whatever. 
   Trivia, part 2: Theresa Harris, who appears as the Sacrifice Girl, also appeared in another zombie/voodoo movie. In I Walked with a Zombie, she plays the maid Alma.

[1] Her quasi-Brit vibe in Black Moon belies her through-and-through American bonafides: born in Los Angeles to a theatrical family, she worked in film and theater in the U.S., and as far as I can tell, never traveled outside the States.

[2] Although the penultimate scene in which there's a (near)sacrifice, followed by a real one, of a sort, is pretty shocking too.

[3] Speaking of pushing the envelope: for the ultimate in snake dance risqué try Marika Rökk's 'Schlangentanz' from Kora Terry (available for viewing on YouTube). This exotic dance routine is pretty outrageous even by today's standards, and more so considering the era, when all German cinema was under the purview of the strait-laced National Socialist regime. 

[4] Along with the much-referenced in this post I Walked with a Zombie, to me the movie that's most similar to Black Moon, especially in atmosphere, is the horror classic Island of Lost Souls.* In particular, Black Moon has a very Souls-esque last scene. Indeed, I might rate Souls as the best Fay Wray movie in which Fay Wray doesn't appear.

   * However, an honorable mention in similarity is due the atmospheric White Zombie (1932), in which the zombie elements are depicted overtly. Indeed, White Zombie is frequently cited as the first movies in which zombies are mentioned by name.  

enigmatic rebel: Ann Dvorak

    Rice, Christina. Ann Dvorak: Hollywood’s Forgotten Rebel. Lexington, KY, University Press of Kentucky, 2013.

     From 1930 to 1934 a group of amazing little films burst onto the motion picture scene, much to the chagrin of self-appointed moralists. These movies, which today we dub pre-Codes, presented a rawer, more realistic view of the human condition, and by implication, they were a blistering critique of American society in general. Among other qualities, pre-Code films were notable for their fast pacing, snappy dialogue, edgy stories, lean, mean set designs, and most of all, tough, worldly-wise characters who more often than not were driven by self-interest, self-indulgence, sensuality, and quick fixes, including (sometimes unpunished) crime. All was presented in just an hour or so and with an obvious theatrical pedigree. In short, the pre-Code movies just had a different look and feel about them. However, under growing public pressure and threats of boycotts, the motion picture industry initiated the Code-enforced era beginning July 1934, which insisted that movies present a more wholesome view of the world. The studios by and large obliged, and, as they say, the rest is history.
     Mirroring the era of pre-Code itself, the careers of many stars faded quickly in the mid and late Thirties. These former luminaries are little more than footnotes in cinema history, and they include once big names, today largely forgotten, like Ruth Chatterton, Miriam Hopkins, Karen Morley, Dorothy Burgess, Ann Harding, Mae Marsh, Ruth Donnelly, Glenda Farrell, David Manners, Warren William, Chester Morris, Mae Clark, and Dorothy Mackaill. Alas, for a number of reasons both personal and professional, Ann Dvorak was one of the casualties whose promise never blossomed to the extent that seemed inevitable in her peak year of 1932. Looked at objectively, her career arc is spotty at best, but devotees relish her performances in the pre-Codes, especially Scarface and Three on a Match, two of her best loved films. A fun bit of trivia is that she appeared as Della Street in an early film version of a Perry Mason mystery, The Case of the Stuttering Bishop (1937). But Ann Dvorak had a talent for self-destruction: she committed the unpardonable sin of challenging the big studios (she tussled with Warners over her contract amid rancorous legal battles). As was the norm in them days, she lost. A couple years later Warners let her go, and she was determined never to attach herself to a major studio again; she was now a free agent. But her career never fully recovered. She was an ambulance driver in London in World War II and later in the Forties was mostly relegated to B movies and bit parts. A starring role of some interest during this time was her appearance in The Private Affairs of Bel-Ami (1947), with George Sanders.
     She left movies altogether in 1951 at the age of forty. In addition to being a rebel and free spirit, Ann Dvorak was that rare bird in golden age Hollywood: a film star who was an intellectual. Her cerebral pursuits included horticulture, book collecting, writing (a pet project was a history of the world), and most improbably, bacteriology. She spent her final years in Honolulu living in obscurity and semi-poverty and died in 1979 at the – by today’s standards – relatively youthful age of sixty-eight. But due to a number of factors – the revival of interest in pre-Code movies and their exposure via TCM, DVDs and theatrical releases; a growing online presence via various tributes and posts; and not least of all, Christina Rice’s marvelous biography – Ann Dvorak’s star has brightened in recent years and she’s finally getting the recognition denied her for decades.
     Christina Rice’s Ann Dvorak: Hollywood’s Forgotten Rebel is a triumph. As the author points out tracking down information on such an under-the-radar subject was not an easy task, to say nothing of locating folks who had actually known her personally. But she persisted and her tome is veritably a model for a star biography, and especially for a biography of a once (near) major star who had faded from public view. The book then is a felicitous balance of the scholarly and the popular: reader-friendly but having the usual academic patina in the form of extensive index, notes and reading list, and a complete filmography. Especially noteworthy are the many photographs – most of them culled from the author’s private collection – of the eminently photogenic Miss Dvorak, even when she’s a bit worse-for-wear. It’s obvious Rice has a genuine affection for her subject but manages an objective view, and the sympathetic biography nicely balances professional and personal elements. As expected the big movies receive more extensive treatment but the lesser ones get respectable coverage as well. While we may infer that indeed Ann Dvorak appeared in her share of mediocre movies, even a few bad ones, she brought class and professionalism to every film she was in. The recalling of Dvorak’s attempts to challenge the big studios, mostly on contracts, reminds us of the power of the studio system in moviedom’s ‘golden age’ (the 1930s and 1940s), and the near slave-like hold the corporate giants had over its stars, both major and minor.
     For ultimately the Ann Dvorak story isn’t unique in the annals of the entertainment industry, and like other performers with unfulfilled careers, any number of wha-if type questions arise. Would things have turned out differently if she hadn’t been so headstrong and hadn’t challenged the big studios early in her career; if only she’d played the game in the usual way and remained patient and let her career develop along more conventional lines; if she had gotten the role of Sadie Thompson in Rain, rather than losing out to Joan Crawford; if she hadn’t left the movies at such a relatively young age. Alas, as in all these kinds of questions, we have that always frustrating and unsatisfying answer: we’ll never know. What we do know is what she did, and, as much as is possible, who she was. But mostly we have her best films, those handful of pre-Codes, and for that we’re the richer. 

a gem of a movie: Jewel Robbery (1932)

  Forbidden Hollywood, Volume 4. Burbank, CA, distributed by Warner Home Video [2012]. 4 videodiscs (267 min.): sound, black and white. Contents: Jewel Robbery; Lawyer Man; They Call It Sin; Man Wanted.

   Jewel Robbery was originally released as a motion picture in 1932 by Warner Bros. Pictures & the Vitaphone Corp. Directed by William Dieterle; screenplay by Erwin Gelsey, based on a story by Ladislaus Fodor. Performers: Kay Francis, William Powell, Alan Mowbray, Hardie Albright, André Luguet, Sheila Terry. Summary: Baroness Teri von Horhenfels lives in Vienna, Austria, with a husband who bores her. When a jewel thief victimizes her, she is intrigued by him.

prosperity is just around the corner

   There are no weak links in Warner's DVD set Forbidden Hollywood v4, but the real jewel is … Jewel Robbery, an absolute creampuff of a movie that sparkles with a sprightly plot and knowing repartee delivered at a snappy pace. The cast is boffo: Kay Francis shines in a quintessentially Kay Francis role: a high society woman who is alternately bored and oversexed. Thus she's ripe for a romance with dashing thief William Powell (oops! he prefers to be called Robber).
 
  Ironically it was this kind of effortless performance that garnered Miss Francis the reputation as a so-so actress because everything seemed so easy for her. Whatever the case, Jewel Robbery is ultimately William Powell's movie as he breezes through his role as the titular character. As always he and Francis have marvelous onscreen chemistry. Kudos also to the rest of the spot on cast: Henry Kolker as Teri’s plodding husband, who nonetheless gets some of the best lines; the ever exuberant Helen Vinson (in her first film), who’s so good she almost steals the movie from the divine Miss Francis; and Lee Kohlmar as the nervously obsequious jeweler Mr. Holländer and Clarence Wilson as the clueless police chief, both of whom fall victim to those 'drugged cigarettes.'

 
   With its echt-Continental pedigree, Jewel Robbery could almost be seen as a warm-up for the even better (though not by much) Trouble in Paradise that appeared later that year [1], with Kay Francis more or less reprising the baroness role (this time as a perfume heiress) and the urbane Herbert Marshall stepping in as the suave thief. Indeed Jewel Robbery has a very Lubitsch-like Euro feel to it as director William Dieterle sustains a mostly breakneck pacing that that even the great Lubitsch would envy. The brittle dialogue is delivered so fast that most of the innuendos fly under the radar and it takes several viewings to appreciate the sly implications and mildly subversive editorial comments.

    But getting back to those funny cigarettes: among other things what makes Robbery a pre-Code cult classic is that it's quite possibly the earliest overt reference to marijuana in the movies, those thin cigarettes William Powell keeps passing out. And to make matters all the cheekier it’s done so in a comic context.

“untouched in the suburbs . . . that doesn’t intrigue me at all”

   The film’s mildly leftist subtext delivers its message subtly – and sometimes not so subtly – in sometimes contradictory ways, in any case always reflecting a certain pre-Code skepticism and street smarts. The Robber’s disdain for bankers inspires the rejoinder that he must be a communist. Quite the contrary, he explains. He much prefers predatory capitalism to egalitarian communism: even in the Depression-laden 1930s, in which the masses in the capitalist countries are mostly poor and downtrodden, there’s still plenty of well-to-do targets for a self-respecting criminal to prey upon.

   As Powell explains, what could he steal in a communist world? Grain elevators? Tractors? And much like the two confidence artists in Trouble in Paradise, Powell’s gentleman thief only fleeces the eminently deserving: wealthy scions, idle heiresses, bankers, government bureaucrats, in other words, the corrupt rich.

   The Francis and Powell characters are appealing, the most sympathetic in the entire film actually. Consequently we root for their, however improbable, romantic success. Indeed, they’re about the only characters in the story worth rooting for. Paradoxically, despite their good looks, fine clothes and breezy charm, neither is very admirable. Teri, by her own admission, is superficial, self-centered, materialistic and uninteresting, and the robber, for all his surface gloss, is still a methodical, calculating criminal. Yet like them we do. We must, it would seem. After all they look pretty good next to the rich trash, doofus policemen, and pompous government apparatchiks they’re surrounded by. The possible exception is the flighty, harmless Marianne (Helen Vinson), more or less a clone of Teri in her trophy wife status and thrill-seeking  vacuity.

   Note: this was Francis’s and Powell’s penultimate movie (they did six altogether). The arguably superior – and very different in tone – One Way Passage that followed later that year was their final pairing. And what a year 1932 was for Kay Francis!

    [1] As good as it is, Jewel Robbery still has a hint of the ramshackle and rough-around-the-edges quality that accounts for a good deal of its charm and the appeal of pre-Code movies today. By contrast Trouble in Paradise luxuriates in a generous swath of Lubitschian polish typical of Paramount’s best efforts.

brief candles: Mae Clarke

   It may seem a contradiction to speak of Mae Clarke in the context of brief candles since she lived to the age of 81 and her career in show business spanned the better part of five decades. But the ‘brief’ in this case refers to her, alas criminally short, run – not even one decade – as a leading lady in prestige films. Of course Mae Clarke is guaranteed her place in cinema immortality, if dubiously so, as the recipient of the grapefruit in the face compliments of gangsta James Cagney. Fans of horror films also remember her as Henry Frankenstein’s bride to be Elizabeth in the original 1931 version of Frankenstein. Elizabeth barely escapes the clutches of the monster but Miss Clarke wasn’t so lucky. In the sequel Bride of Frankenstein she was bumped in favor of the proper and more British Valerie Hobson, thus rounding out the all-Brit cast.

   The rest of the decade was a mixed bag for Mae Clarke. She was featured in some fine films but within a few years was being relegated to B pictures. She had the misfortune of appearing in her best role early on. She was barely twenty-one years of age when she was cast as the London streetwalker Myra Deauville in Waterloo Bridge, the 1931 version, not to be confused with the better known, and not as good, Vivien Leigh remake of a few years later. Historically the 1931 Bridge is of interest in that it dates from the cusp of the talkie films just starting to hit their stride, and perhaps even more so, as being a prime example of what today we refer to as pre-Code films. She never reached this peak again though there were some admirable turns in Night World, The Impatient Maiden, Lady Killer and The Front Page, among others. But by the end of the decade her career as a major leading lady was over. In the Forties she was gradually eased into supporting roles, mostly in low budget fare.

   In subsequent years opportunities became even more limited: when she was barely in her early forties, she was often typecast as protective, motherly figures. A prime example is in 1954’s Magnificent Obsession, in which she plays the grateful mother of a child saved by the skills of genius surgeon Rock Hudson. Within a couple of years she more or less essayed the same role in I Died a Thousand Times and Wichita. Gradually she began to be consigned to cameos, bit parts and the occasional television appearance [1]. There was a comeback of sorts with a stint on the tv soap opera General Hospital in the early 1960s. Her last film appearance (uncredited) was in 1970 in something called Watermelon Man, of which she later insisted she never appeared in. She took up painting later in life and by all accounts it brought her much pleasure.

   There are several possible explanations for her rapid rise and equally rapid fall as a film actress: perhaps health issues resulting from a nervous breakdown, and later, an auto accident; bad timing; her self-enforced sabbatical to Rio De Janeiro and stumbling attempt at a comeback. But perhaps the most likely reason is that Miss Clarke’s wholesome, working class persona was at odds with the prevailing glamorous, exotic aesthetic the studios preferred for lead actresses in the 1930s and 1940s, as exemplified by the likes of Crawford, Garbo, Dietrich, Norma Shearer, Hedy Lamarr and later, Ingrid Bergman [2].

   After living for several years at the Motion Picture & Television Country House and Hospital in the Woodland Hills area of Los Angeles, Mae Clarke passed on in 1992. At the time she was working with James Curtis on an autobiography, later published in 1996 as Featured Player: An Oral Autobiography of Mae Clarke. Looked at one way, Mae Clarke’s story is the all-too familiar trajectory of an actress whose career peaked much too soon and never quite reached the heights of stardom her exceptional talent merited [3]. On the other hand we have the handful of her best films, pre-Code gems that they are, and for that we're the richer.

   But perhaps there is some divine justice, however belated, lurking in the hall of mirrors we call the entertainment industry. Mae Clarke is enjoying a kind of renaissance these days, with the growing interest in pre-Code and resultant higher profile of her 1930s films via venues like TCM and DVDs. Moreover, Mae Clarke tributes are also creeping into the ‘Net. Finally there’s a growing appreciation of her unusually structured, difficult to find autobiography.

   [1] An exception was the sympathetic prison matron in the 1955 quasi-noir Women's Prison.
Update, 31 Jan 2025: Recently I had the good fortune to capture Mae in a late career television appearance on Public Defender (I just love to stumble upon golden age actors in the twilight of their careers when they appeared via the then new, then dubious, medium of television). Anyhow Mae was spry and beautiful at forty something,* and moreover had a great scene in which she slugged and was slugged by two tough guys. To see such a classy actress of certain years** duke it out with the hoods was downright shocking for the era. Hooray for Mae and her pluck!

    * To be exact she was forty-four when the episode was filmed and I hope it's not too unchivalrous of me to opine that if anything she looked a trifle older (and was probably playing a slightly older character), which gives her scuffling with the two bad guys an even greater shock value.
    ** I use the term 'certain years' here in its broadest sense. Mae was easing into her mid and late forties, which by the standards of the era was certain years, and likewise, again as defined by the era, she was creeping into the the upper ranges of middle aged.  

   [2] About the only two major actresses of the era who played mostly proletarian and middle class characters were Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck, and even they had their share of well-bred roles. Yes, there was also Kate Hepburn, hardly a glamour girl but nonetheless a major star who usually played upper crust types.

   [3] An interesting comparison is that of the actress Kay Francis, whose career also peaked in the early Thirties but who remains largely unknown today (although there are signs of a rediscovery). Miss Francis’s star shined even brighter than Mae Clarke’s, and for a time she was one of the highest paid actresses in Hollywood, ergo one of the highest paid persons in the world. But Kay Francis had a talent for self-destruction. Disagreements with Warners over material resulted in her demotion to B movies and the non-renewal of her contract in 1939. In the 1940s her star faded quickly*** and she was consigned to supporting roles and work at poverty row studios. Her last film was Wife Wanted for Monogram Pictures in 1946.
     *** Along with her star status her looks began to fade as well, possibly brought on by smoking and her lifelong fondness for alcohol.

nothing ever happens: Grand Hotel (1932)

  Grand Hotel [videorecording (DVD)]. Metro-Goldwyn Mayer; Loew's  Inc.; directed by Edmund Goulding. Special edition. Turner Entertainment Co.; Warner Home Video, 2005. Based on the novel by Vicki Baum. DVD release of the 1932 motion picture. Special features: documentary "Checking Out: Grand Hotel"; Hollywood premiere; "Just a Word of Warning" theatre announcement; vintage musical short: "Nothing Ever Happens"; theatrical trailers: Grand Hotel (1932) and Weekend at the Waldorf (1945).  
  Photography, William Daniels; film editor, Blanche Sewell; recording director, Douglas Shearer; art director, Cedric Gibbons; costumes, Adrian. Performers: Greta Garbo, John Barrymore, Joan Crawford, Wallace Beery, Lionel Barrymore, Lewis Stone, Jean Hersholt. Summary: the glitz and glitter of Berlin's Grand Hotel comes alive with this story of love and betrayal.

Were I to single out one movie that epitomizes the glamour of Golden Age Hollywood, with all attendant positives and negatives, I would choose Grand Hotel, and as support, note the gala world premiere, a snippet of which is included in present package, as the zenith of Hollywood stage management with resultant near hysterical response from the throngs of ecstatic fans. Indeed, the near riot that ensues at the premiere seems to anticipate the apocalyptic ending to Nathanael West’s far less romantic, much darker novel Day of the Locust.

  In any case, let us begin with a mild criticism. Like the well-heeled guests at the titular establishment, Grand Hotel comes perilously close to overstaying its welcome. The movie might well have been trimmed by ten minutes or so and little of substance lost. But such a quibble amongst a proverbial embarrassment of riches: like the grand hotel itself the film has a high gloss, well-tended (even by MGM standards) look. Make no mistake, Grand Hotel is beautifully filmed and lit, with the incredible moderne set worthy of a special mention in itself. Much praise is also due to the smoothly balanced script that deftly integrates the various stories, all held together by Edmund Goulding’s brisk, non-showy directorial hand. Goulding may be the true unsung hero of GH, but his direction tends to be overshadowed, albeit deservingly, by the legendary cast and their unforgettable performances.

   Of course the big draw in GH is the, then novel, all-star cast. All the leads are fine, though I’m not so fond of Wallace Beery or Lionel Barrymore, the characters or the performances. For me Lionel was at his worst when he chewed the scenery too much, which he tends to do here. And much as I’m a fan of Joan Crawford, I can’t agree with the mostly rave reviews of her take on the little stenographer. Sure, she holds her own against the heavyweight talent around her and looks great in those Adrian designed suits, but that’s about it. Otherwise there’s nothing special about the character or the performance.

    But ultimately this is Greta Garbo’s movie, perhaps her finest hour. For all your Kate Hepburns, Bogarts, Marilyns, and Chaplins, my choice as the greatest movie star of all time would have to be Garbo, probably because of her very mystery and her status as the most reclusive major film star ever. And with no disrespect to Camille, Ninotchka and her other great essays, I’d say this is her most purely Garboesque role, for the simple reason that she’s playing herself: insecure, unpredictable, shy, but basically a good soul with a big, and vulnerable, heart. And yes, this is the movie where she says her signature line, debatably the most famous quote by a star in film history: ‘I want to be alone.’

    Barrymore also shines in a very John Barrymore type of role, a shady noble who’s fallen on hard times. A thief he is, a criminal to be sure, but always the gentleman. He does his best to make a living scraping by as a member of the nouveau poor, but in a well-turned sort of way, with strong helpings of elan and panache. No surprise he gets plenty of the great profile views.

    In their scenes together both Barrymore and Garbo play it natural and understated, with limited overly-emphatic gestures and vocal mannerisms so typical of the times. They are a true joy to watch and savor, their pairing all the more special in that this was the only film they did together. Still, even while toning down his more hammy theatrical instincts, the wily Barrymore couldn’t resist stealing a few scenes: only John Barrymore could upstage Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford while underplaying his role.

   Included on the present DVD is a respectable collection of bonus features, including the aforementioned gala world premiere at (where else?) Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. I confess I would have preferred a commentary track since GH has so many resonances historic and otherwise. (Update: there’s commentary on the more recent [2013] Blu-Ray version: hooray!).   

   

I want to be alone!

As for the other bonus features, best of all, and almost as good as the original, is the slightly surreal parody, “Nothing Ever Happens,” a newly discovered 1933 Vitaphone short (18 min.), produced by Warner Brothers, and directed by Roy Mack with a group of highly skilled if little known actors. They camp it up mightily with their delectable lampooning of Garbo, the two Barrymores, Beery and Crawford. Indeed, the five principals in the parody, who bear striking resemblances to the originals, are so good they may be more spot-on than their more celebrated colleagues (but don't tell anyone I said so!).
 
    Moreover, and true to its pre-Code pedigree, Grand Hotel gets away with a lot of suggestion and innuendo. However, "Nothing Ever Happens" pushes the envelope even further, though it takes repeated viewings to catch all the spicy entendres, double and otherwise. NEH also boasts some, eminently echt-Warner Bros., dance numbers that would do Busby Berkeley proud.

   

Summary: Grand Hotel is a wonderful treat, an all-time classic served up in grand style. It's true catnip for fans of Old School movie-making at its best.