Category Archives: 1930s

The Mummy (1932)

*. Curious, and disappointing. A monster movie without a monster.
*. This should be a good thing because it gives us more Karloff and not just another inarticulate barely ambulatory corpse stumbling around. But not seeing the titular figure wrapped in bandages, looming over his victims before choking them out — all the moments, let’s be honest, that are what you came in for — leaves the film with a not inconsiderable hole in its middle.
*. Audiences must have felt somewhat cheated. The posters and trailer all highlight Karloff’s one brief appearance in full mummy make-up and bandages. This comes in the first ten minutes of the movie, after which the creature is never seen again. Meanwhile, his later incarnation as Ardeth Bay (which is how he appears throughout the rest of the film) was either omitted entirely from the promotional material or played down.
*. Today I think the Mummy’s status as one of the classic Universal horror franchises of the period inflates a lot of expectations. Expectations that are, as I began by noting, disappointed. Not only is there no monster, this is distinctly third-rate work.
*. Critical opinion has been all over the place. Pauline Kael went in to raptures over The Mummy, I think mainly as an homage to Karl Freund, whose first feature as director this was. I think it’s nicely shot, but what Kael says is going too far: “No other horror film has ever achieved so many emotional effects by lighting; this inexpensively made film has a languorous, poetic feeling, and the eroticism that lives on under Karloff’s wrinkled parchment skin is like a bad dream of undying love.” That’s nice, but over the top for such a flick.
*. Consulting David J. Skal’s The Monster Show I was surprised to see that The Mummy only receives the briefest of mentions, written off as only a “remake” of Dracula. “The picture is a good example of the kind of creative conservatism the studio system fostered; virtually every plot element as well as key performers (not to mention some props and set decorations) were recycled from Dracula.”
*. It’s hard to disagree. Not only do David Manners and Edward Van Sloan both reappear, they’re basically playing the same parts as they did in Dracula. They might as well be named Harker and Von Helsing. And the story really is the same, with Imhotep as the Count using his powers of hypnotism to seduce the young man’s girl and make her his deathless bride. Not surprisingly the script was written by John L. Balderston, who had also adapted Dracula. He was just sticking to a formula, and originally he wanted the Mummy to be even more like a vampire, returning to his casket during the day.
*. How strictly he was sticking to formula can be seen from the opening vignette, where Imhotep is awakened by Norman. For some reason the appearance of the Mummy sends Norman into hysterics. This struck me as really sounding a false note, unless you see it as merely meant to echo Renfield’s madness in Dracula.
*. Joe Dante calls The Mummy “an improved remake of Dracula.” I’m not so sure (and I’m not a huge Dracula fan). The rest of the script strikes me as not just formulaic but awkward and sloppy. It was adapted out of a source story that was in turn suggested by the figure of Cagliostro, not a mummy. Paul M. Jensen’s synopsis of the Cagliostro story on the commentary is bewildering, and he concludes by calling it a “tangle of arbitrary events and contrived relationships.” Balderston was called in to add coherence.
*. Take that opening scene. Somehow it has to be arranged that Whemple and Muller will leave Norman alone so he can open the chest and read the scroll. (Why does he want to do this? Just because he’s an idiot.) So Muller says to Whemple “I cannot speak before a boy. Come out under the stars of Egypt.” So smooth.
*. Then, on the level of plot, I was never entirely sure what Imhotep planned to do with Helen. As I understand it the plan is to kill her and then bring her back as a mummy-person. But does that make sense? Why not just possess Helen and cut out the other steps? He says something about making her experience passing through the gates of life and death but that seems like so much mumbo-jumbo to me. The only reason they stuck it in is because Helen has to be physically threatened before being rescued. I think the main point is that she has to die first in order to become immortal, but you have to admit that it’s left kind of vague.
*. Not all of the inconsistencies are the script’s fault. As Jensen notes in his commentary, the script explained why Imhotep hadn’t taken the scroll from the museum guard he killed (he was interrupted and didn’t have time), but this was left out of the film for some reason.
*. Speaking of things left out, you may be wondering where the character billed as “Saxon Warrior” in the cast list appears. This was part of a historical collage representing Zita Johann’s various reincarnations that was cut.

*. I mentioned the immediate source of the story being a script based on the character of Cagliostro. But where did the Egyptian stuff come from? Mainly from the fact that Balderston was familiar with the story of Tutankhamun’s tomb and its curse. But there was actually a silent film from 1911, now lost, that dealt with a revived mummy. And before that there was Bram Stoker’s 1903 novel The Jewel of Seven Stars. So the Mummy wasn’t a wholly original horror creation.
*. The work Jack Pierce did on the other Universal monsters was more memorable, but his Mummy may be better for being more subtle. Karloff’s face seems to have been transformed into a dry scrollwork of lines that’s all the more effective for seeming real. His skin looks as though it might tear if you stuck a finger in it.
*. So it’s a movie full of talk (there’s little action on screen, in keeping with what Jensen identifies as Freund’s German background), and much of the talk is confusing. It is, however, fun to listen to the dialogue in old movies and see how much more literate they were. I was grinning when Helen, in her Egyptian princess identity, says “It is my coffin, made by my father against my death.” I doubt many modern viewers will recognize that use of “against,” but it’s perfectly valid.
*. Another fun bit of usage comes in the trailer barking about “the amazing, incredulous, unbelievable story.” Incredulous is here being used to mean incredible, which is a historical usage that I don’t think you’d ever see today.
*. It’s a weird film. Karloff’s Imhotep has what Jensen describes as an “aura of fragility.” We never see him killing anyone except from a distance by use of his occult powers. He may be so desiccated that he’d crumble at any contact (note how he has to tell the older Whemple not to touch him). Meanwhile, Zita Johann is a striking but unorthodox leading lady. Apparently she was difficult on set (from the stories related in the Mummy Dearest documentary it sounds like Freund was mostly to blame) and she didn’t do many movies after this.
*. Well, I’ve said I don’t care much for this one, but with Freund behind the camera and Karloff in front it’s certainly watchable. I particularly like the wonderful shot where Imhotep and Helen sit by the magic pool and the camera both lifts and then corkscrews slightly before descending into the mists. That’s beautiful, and really striking for the time. I also have to say that compared to the follow-up Universal Mummy movies that came out in the 1940s (The Mummy’s Hand, The Mummy’s Tomb, The Mummy’s Ghost, and The Mummy’s Curse), this one really does feel like a classic. But judged on its own I still find it disappointing.

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Satan Met a Lady (1936)

*. Based on “a book” by Dashiell Hammett. That’s cold.
*. It is, of course, based on The Maltese Falcon, though it’s a very free adaptation. I guess Warner Bros. just figured that since they already had the rights to The Maltese Falcon they could film it again under a different title giving the characters different names and nobody would be any the wiser.
*. But why this title? Earlier drafts went with The Man in the Black Hat and Men on Her Mind, neither of which seem to have much relation to what’s going on. But what does Satan Met a Lady refer to? I assume the lady is Valerie Purvis (Bette Davis), but then who is Satan? Detective Ted Shane (Warren William)?
*. Bette Davis thought the film crap (or “junk,” to quote her directly) and wasn’t going to do it, but she needed the money. That’s not really an auspicious way to get started.
*. Again we are forced into making comparisons, though given the changes they made there isn’t the same sense of seeing a diminished thing as when putting the 1931 version of The Maltese Falcon alongside John Huston’s 1941 classic. This is a different film.
*. Most of the changes are cosmetic. Instead of a Maltese falcon we’re chasing after the legendary horn of Roland, which is an artefact made of ivory and supposedly filled with precious gems. The Gutman character is now a tough old dame and Wilmer the gunsel is her babyish adult son (who is always just about to tell Shane somethin’). Joel Cairo is a proper English fellow. And the femme fatale is Bette.
*. The biggest shift, however, has to do with tone. This has always been difficult for filmmakers to get right. Only Bogart has managed to project the sense of wry cynicism and physical threat that Sam Spade needs. In the 1931 film Ricard Cortez was a bit too leering, while here Warren William seems to be auditioning for William Powell’s role in The Thin Man (a successful franchise in the mid-’30s).
*. It’s all very lighthearted and farcical, which doesn’t really fit with much of what’s going on. The cuckolding and murder of Shane’s partner, for example, is treated as a laugh. Which, when you think about it, is remarkable.
*. And I don’t mean remarkable in a good way. I mean a misfire, to the point where I’m not even sure what target they were trying to hit. There are a few things to enjoy here, like the big baby Kenny playing at being a gunman, and Bette Davis nearly succeeding in not embarassing herself, but overall this is a mess that doesn’t play well five years after the first Maltese Falcon and seems totally misguided in light of what we’d be getting next.

The Maltese Falcon (1931)

*. This is a movie that’s hard to judge on its own merits today. Meaning that if you’ve seen it, you’ve likely only done so after seeing John Huston’s more famous 1941 version of the same story.
*. That’s hard on Roy Del Ruth’s film, because even though I think most people consider it to be a good little movie, with lots of things in it to enjoy, it doesn’t do one thing better than Huston’s.
*. Just look at the cast. The 1941 film had one of the greatest supporting casts ever assembled, so it’s no surprise that Otto Matieson, though very good, is no Peter Lorre, that Dudley Digges, though also very good, is no Sydney Greenstreet, or that Dwight Frye, who hardly gets to speak but who certainly looks the part, is no Elisha Cook Jr. In sum, the gang of falcon-hunting weirdos is great, but they fall far short of what we got ten years later. The perfect, as they say, is the enemy of the good.
*. The leads, I’m afraid, are an even bigger step down. Bebe Daniels is game, but no Mary Astor. And Ricardo Cortez . . . can we say he’s no Sam Spade, or should we just say he’s no Humphrey Bogart? Because Sam Spade really became Bogie. There are no alternatives.
*. I feel bad just making all these comparisons, but like I say: there’s no way you can watch this movie without its remake in your mind, and the comparisons are all to its disadvantage.

*. Take another point that’s often raised: that this movie was made pre-Code and so could take more risks in its adaptation of a gritty novel. Yes, in theory. But in practice? There’s Sam’s strip search of Ms. Wonderly, which I’ll admit is kind of fun. But the franker depiction of his adultery with his partner’s wife just makes him seem more of a leering creep (and one who even files his nails at one point!). Also, while I’ve heard it said that they could be franker about the homosexual subtext, I don’t think this is played up any more than in the later version, where Lorre’s Joel Cairo is about as swishy as you can get and Wilmer is even more the kept boy.
*. Huston’s Maltese Falcon is sometimes considered the first film noir, though you’ll find lots of people to argue about that. Some people credit Stranger on the Third Floor (1940) and others will push things even further back, into the 1920s. But it made me wonder: if the ’41 Maltese Falcon is the first noir, or even among the first, then what is this movie? What generic distinction would you make between the two to classify the one as noir and the other not? The lighting?
*. I don’t care for the ending, with Spade visiting Ms. Wonderly in a women’s prison. Gone is his big speech about standing up for something, which would only fly past her anyway since she doesn’t recognize any code. And the fact that he is now working for the District Attorney just tastes bad. Sure, Sam may have his principles, but I can’t see him working for the Man after all he’s been through.
*. So it’s a decent movie, and to say it falls short of Huston’s film is hard to hold against it. But even if it had never been remade I doubt this version would be very well known today. The leads just aren’t strong enough, the action not tough enough, the cracking wise not snappy and smart enough. It was, however, a step in the right direction. And that’s more than can be said for Hollywood’s next attempt at the same material five years later: Satan Met a Lady.

Even — As You and I (1937)

*. As with any distinctive style, surrealism soon became the stuff of parody. Anybody could “do” surrealism: all you needed was to grab a camera, shoot some random film, and then edit it together in an obscure way.
*. The next step was that the whole process became material for a meta-parody. This is what we get in Even — As You and I, a short film about three rather dim fellows (the three credited directors) who decide to enter an amateur filmmaker contest. After a brainstorming screenplay-writing session comes up with nothing but variations on the “boy meets girl” scenario they are inspired by a magazine article on surrealism to give that a try. At least they won’t have to worry about a script!
*. Taking their cameras to the street they set about trying to assemble a surrealist masterpiece, with copies of Dali paintings being their only guide. It seems their main preoccupation with surrealism is in tricks of perspective. Their Eureka moment comes from looking at a picture in the magazine that represents something different depending on which way the page is turned. So they drop a camera down a manhole and climb a hydro pole to capture odd angles.
*. This is a bit odd, since when they screen the final cut of their film, The Afternoon of a Rubberband, it doesn’t include any such material. Instead there are the usual surrealist props in motion and an homage to the eyeball-cutting scene in Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou.
*. Finally, they realize that they are too late to enter the contest, which depresses them until they realize that there is another contest for cinematographers advertised under the headline of tricks and gadgets. They are in business again.
*. Well, it’s a send-up of a style of filmmaking that was already pretty much over and an industry that most of the people who know it best have viewed as comically absurd. There are a bunch of movie in-jokes to smile at. The filmmakers didn’t go on to do much, with Harry Hay being probably the best known name and he was mostly famous for being an early gay rights activist. Otherwise, it’s a reminder of what happened to surrealism: how a groundbreaking and controversial movement had, in the space of ten years, become “tricks and gadgets” and the stuff of parody. Ironically, such a fate may be the truest measure of its success.

Chandu the Magician (1932)

*. Despite the fact that a number of early filmmakers used the new medium as a way of (re)creating their own kind of magic tricks or illusions, turning “movie magic” into a term of art, magicians have never been that popular on screen. Even superhero-magician hybrids, from Chandu the Magician to Doctor Strange, while being adapted from their sources into decent flicks, didn’t enjoy great success.
*. Chandu should have been a hit. The character had been introduced to American audiences only a year earlier by way of an incredibly popular radio serial. Gregory Mank, on the DVD commentary, says that 60% of American households tuned in five nights a week to listen to Chandu, “an amazing statistic.” The show was targeted at kids, and the movie delivered with a crazy story of exotic adventure, served up with great special effects. And yet.

*. I had a hard time telling from Mank’s commentary, and the accompanying featurette Masters of Magic: The World of Chandu, just how well the movie did at the box office. Mank doesn’t say much aside from mentioning it was “profitable.” From what I was able to dig up this is correct, but only just. It certainly didn’t provide anything like the return on investment of Frankenstein. Other voices on the documentary say that the box office was disappointing due to Edmund Lowe not having the requisite star power to carry the lead. We’re also told that it didn’t do well in cities but played well in small towns, better in matinees than evening shows (as would be expected given the target audience).
*. I don’t think anyone could have been happy, as the franchise was allowed to lapse. There was a serial a couple of years later (The Return of Chandu) made up of a dozen short films that cast Lugosi as Chandu, but that would be it. Before long the mage had gone the way of the Shadow or Mandrake, radio stars killed by video. There were various rumours of remakes and re-sets all the way into the 1970s, but nothing materialized.

*. Why has this been the fate of so many magicians? Chandu the Magician (along with The Mask of Fu Manchu, starring Boris Karloff) was Fox’s response to the success of Universal’s monster hits of the previous year, and it checks all the right boxes. I don’t think we can blame it all on Lowe, as I don’t think he’s that bad, and the villain of such a piece (Bela Lugosi as Roxor) is always likely to steal the show anyway. Who remembers the handsome leads in Dracula or Frankenstein?
*. Even the credits are fun, with a waving hand making them appear on screen. And they are interesting credits too. Co-director William Cameron Menzies was an accomplished production designer, and gives this film a great look with some really impressive sets. James Wong Howe was behind the camera. Henry B. Walthall had been the star of The Birth of a Nation. Ken Strickfaden apparently designed the lab, as he had done in Frankenstein. Bela Lugosi turns in one of his best performances.
*. It’s a good story too, with all sorts of great adventure elements. There are multiple kidnappings, a plot involving a giant death ray that’s capable of wiping out cities halfway around the world, our hero being bound in chains and locked into a sarcophagus that’s then tossed into a river, a prison cell with a collapsing floor, and all sorts of other pulp goodies. For a children’s film it also pushed the envelope. Censors objected to a scene where a man has his eyes burned out with a branding iron and another where sexy June Lang is put on the auction block. Mank directs us to look at her bosom to see why the censors were so upset, as it’s clear she isn’t wearing anything under her light dress and it rather looks like a cool wind is blowing in from somewhere. Princess Leia’s turn as a slave girl had nothing on this.

*. About the only part that doesn’t work is Herbert Mundin’s turn as Miggles. It’s just a one-note part and gets tiring quickly, especially given how it’s overworked. Not to mention how he seems to be entirely shoehorned into the plot.
*. So it was a hot property and it still disappointed. The Chandu franchise was stillborn. And again I wonder why. Mank finishes up his commentary by saying that we have always been fascinated with the world of magic, which is true, but not in the movies. Why? Perhaps movies raised the bar too high. The movies are magic on steroids, making us less appreciative of the real illusion.

Freaks (1932)

*. The easy and obvious place to start is to say that this movie is itself a freak, an oddity, sui generis, “one of the strangest movies ever made by an American studio” (David Skal). Though perhaps this is only being lazy and clever. As the initial review in the New York Times put it: “Freaks is no normal program film, but whether it deserves the title of abnormal is a matter of personal opinion.”
*. Well, let’s start with things that I think we can say about Freaks. In the first place, it was a commercial failure. MGM wanted to get into the horror business after seeing Universal’s success, but they didn’t like what they got with Freaks and it did poorly at the box office. Critics were largely (though not exclusively) against it, it was banned in the UK, and then all but disappeared for a number of years. Tood Browning’s career was basically over. Skal says Freaks “was the beginning of the end of Todd Browning’s previously charmed career at MGM,” though he did go on to make a couple of other interesting but minor films in the 1930s (including Mark of the Vampire and The Devil-Doll).
*. In the second place, Freaks is a semi-lost film. Apparently it was cut by about a third and the stuff that was cut is gone forever. In this (one) respect it’s like The Magnificent Ambersons (or Metropolis, before that semi-lost film was found): a landmark film but also a ruined monument to what might have been.
*. As a result of having lost so much and then having extra material added in post production at the studio’s insistence (including a new opening and a dreadful epilogue), the result is a mess. There are even lines that are left not making any sense. For example, when Hercules belts Joseph(ine) he says he’ll fix her eye, which just sounds bizarre because they cut the line before it which had him saying “You’re fixing your nose are you?”
*. A final word I’d add to this short list of failure and loss is shock. There are very few horror movies that retain their power to shock, and for Freaks to be able to do so after nearly a hundred years is amazing. And yet who can forget Cleopatra’s final appearance as the Duck Lady? This is body horror long before there was a name for it, and it still packs a wallop.
*. I love the hand tearing through the title screen, and the barker’s spiel immediately grounds our sympathy. “They didn’t ask to be brought into this world.” Echoes of Frankenstein, which are perhaps not by coincidence. Early monsters tended to be more sympathetic. Contemporary horror is more about psychopaths and other killing machines.
*. There’s also a prologue scroll that played before the film that I should mention. “Never again will such a story be filmed, as modern science and teratology is rapidly eliminating such blunders of nature from the world.” I had never heard the word “teratology” before. It means the study of abnormalities of physiological development. You learn something every day, and from the unlikeliest sources.

*. Danny Peary: “I can think of no film from the period that is filled with more sexual innuendo.” It really is remarkable, both for how much of it there is and for how frankly it’s presented. Some of it was cut (Skal mentions a scene where the trained seal amorously pursues the Turtle Girl), but plenty remains. Perhaps the most daring is Cleopatra’s line when she displays her bosom to Hercules and asks “What do you think of these?” But there’s also the scene where Cleopatra drops her cape for Hans while he ogles her, or when Phroso seems to notice Venus’s “shape” for the first time. Then there’s Roscoe stripping down to his (ladies’) underwear, or Frieda hanging her lingerie on the clothesline. Or think of the way Cleopatra goes into orgasm mode while Hans massages her (“It’s so good to be rubbed!”), or the similar expressions of passion by the Siamese twin who is not being kissed.

*. Why so much sexy stuff? Usually sex in horror is meant either as a distraction or as a way of suggesting some thematic or psychological link between sex and violence. Here, however, it seems like just another way to introduce a note of normality. Of course these are sexual beings. They are, as they insist, still men (and women).
*. With his background in the circus and predilection for such creepy stories (he’d already done The Unholy Three and The Unknown), I guess this was the movie Browning was destined to make. David Thomson thought Thalberg was also a key personality, but I think this may be overplayed. Thalberg initially supported the film (or at least supported Browning), before later despairing of it.
*. Thomson: “Nothing is exaggerated; nothing is set up in a world of shadow or dementia.” Because it didn’t need to go the route of expressionistic nightmare, though Browning was more than capable of this. But I think the main point is that Browning didn’t want the freaks to seem like monsters, at least initially. He wanted them to appear normal before they turn into something dangerous.

*. Perhaps because of all the cuts it seems to me to be a movie of moments. The wedding banquet is justifiably famous, remembered in films like Altman’s The Player and Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street. “Gooble-gobble” has entered the vernacular. The sense of a net closing around Cleopatra and Hercules in the final act is well handled, and the climactic chase in the storm, with the freaks sliding through the mud in pursuit, is great, if abbreviated. Finally, the shot of Cleopatra as the Duck Woman is unforgettable, and really should have been the final shot of the film. The only other ending I can compare it to for sheer shock value is the “Help me! Help meeeeee!” at the end of The Fly (1958).
*. The sideshow performers do their thing, but the acting by the “normal” figures isn’t very good. Some of them seem as uncomfortable with the dialogue as Browning was with sound generally. Originally Myrna Loy was set to play Cleopatra and Jean Harlow Venus, but they understandably bailed. The project itself was originally the idea of Harry Earles (Hans), who wanted to make a film of the Tod Robbins story “Spurs.” Actually, as the credits read, the final script was only “suggested” by “Spurs.” They are very different stories. For example, the midget’s revenge on his gold-digging bride is only to beat her (putting the titular “spurs” to her while he rides on her shoulders), not to turn her into a freak herself.

*. I began by mentioning the conventional line about how this movie is a sort of sideshow attraction of its own. That has to be qualified, as it does tell what is in many ways a conventional story, but I think it’s as a freak  show that I still look at it.
*. What I mean is that I don’t really enjoy watching it, and don’t come back to it very often, but that it does exert that horrible fascination that we associate with freak shows, or car accidents. I think parts of it are very well done, and even in its present mutilated form it may be Browning’s best work (I’m not a big fan of Dracula). Maybe it’s the lack of any characters I really care about that leaves me feeling a bit cold toward it.

*. This is, however, also one of the more remarkable things about how Freaks works. For most of the movie the freaks are presented sympathetically: loyal to each other and generally good natured. But at the end this image is reversed: we go from their idyllic first appearance playing in the sunny woods to the last shots we have of them, covered in mud and crawling through a stormy forest at night, very much objects of terror. In other words, we’ve been fooled by a bait-and-switch. Not that the freaks really are evil monsters, but that the story is told in such way that we’ve been lulled into thinking they’re harmless and nice only to have our expectations suddenly reversed.
*. We may think we’re living in a world with certain moral rules, but in the end that’s not the way Browning wants to play it. Because let’s face it, the epilogue’s attempt to whitewash Hans’s complicity in what happened to Cleopatra isn’t just unconvincing but disgusting. We know he is an embittered and nasty man.
*. Skal calls Browning a “profoundly cynical artist.” He’s our contemporary. This is a bleak film and it belongs on a double-bill with such an example of twenty-first century cynicism and body horror as The Human Centipede. Such an outlook is more at home in our own time. Gooble-gobble. One of us.

Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933)

*. I wasn’t long into this one before I felt sure I’d seen it before. This was not, however, because I was familiar with the 1953 remake House of Wax starring Vincent Price, which remains pretty faithful to the original (outside of losing the girl reporter). Instead, what I was remembering was Doctor X.
*. Doctor X had come out just the year before and had also been directed by Michael Curtiz, starred Lionel Atwill and Fay Wray, had the same art director and cinematographer, was shot in the same two-color Technicolor system (the last studio feature filmed using this process), and had the same opening theme music. Even some of the plot elements are the same as in Doctor X, which also had a fast-talking reporter and made use of waxwork figures to dramatize the crimes.
*. I mentioned that the 1953 version cuts out the lady reporter character, replacing her with a giggling, gold-digging bimbo. I also mentioned the names of the two top-billed stars here: Atwill and Wray. In doing so I’m guilty of promoting what I think is a common misunderstanding of this movie. The thing is, this is really Glenda Farrell’s movie. She’s the spunky reporter Florence Dempsey, and I suspect she has the most lines in the movie and perhaps the most screen time as well. She’s also the character who does all the work of the plot in uncovering Mr. Igor’s foul scheme. Wray is really just a damsel in distress who screams.

*. I enjoy the newspaper angle, even if all the wisecracking, sarcastic quips, and sexual innuendo is an odd fit with the Mr. Igor story. Indeed, it’s not just an odd fit. It actually overwhelms Igor’s mad revenge. I’ll admit I got lost figuring out what his long game was vis-a-vis his former partner Worth. And where did the hophead Darcy fit into all this?
*. The ending confused audiences then and now. Florence turns down the rich kid Winton for her editor Jim. Plausible, but Winton had seemed like fun while there wasn’t much going on between Florence and Jim but the usual banter.
*. The Technicolor system required so much lighting the heat apparently melted some of the wax figures, requiring them to be played by actors. A lesson in irony there.

*. I wonder if the lighting requirements were also behind the giant sets. Igor’s museum and studio look the size of airplane hangars. The morgue is a palace of the dead. Even the girls’ apartment is ginormous. There’s so much empty space.
*. There’s much to like in this movie (I haven’t mentioned the bizarre techno-expressionist lab) but I found the gap between the newspaper stuff and the wax museum story a real bother. The remake wisely got rid of the former, even though this led to the female leads being significantly downgraded. Atwill is just OK here, perhaps not realizing how much he really needed to ham such a slight part up. Curtiz goes for a lot of close-ups but they tend to be either overdrawn (Wray) or inexpressive (Atwill). All-in-all, I find Doctor X to be more entertaining fare, though it’s far less well known. Nevertheless, the basic idea here, which actually came from an unpublished story, was gold. There were going to be many more visits to this museum in the years to come.

Il caso Valdemar (1936)

*. Poe has always been a film favourite, and I think we’re all familiar with the adaptations made of classic tales like “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “The Black Cat.” That some of these adaptations were very, very loose, sometimes borrowing nothing more than a title, is no matter. Hell, sometimes they don’t even get his name spelled right in the credits. It’s “Edgar Allen [sic] Poe” in The Haunted Palace, and “A. E. Poe” here. But as the creators of the P.O.E. series understood, it’s only the last three letters that count. Three letters and lots of atmosphere.
*. But while I think cinema’s fascination with Poe is natural, I’ve always been a bit puzzled by the amount of love his story “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” has gotten. It was the final story in Roger Corman’s Tales of Terror trilogy, was George Romero’s entry in Two Evil Eyes, and was also adapted in P.O.E.: Poetry of Eerie. All of this for a story that’s basically about a dying man who is hypnotized so that he remains in a state of suspended decease until the “control” is released and he decomposes in a rush. That’s it. Just a guy rotting in bed.
*. Well, decomposing corpses have always been a horror staple, and having a corpse decompose very quickly right before our eyes is the sort of trick that effects people like to play. So I suppose that’s a big source of the attraction.
*. Il caso Valdemar is a silent film with only some scrawled notes (in Italian) to explain what is going on. Knowing the story would be a help, but perhaps not as much as you might think. Some matters remain obscure, though I don’t think they’re really necessary to enjoy the film.
*. As you should expect, the disintegration, or liquefaction, of Valdemar’s body is the star of the show, and it’s very well done. It even sounds better in Italian: the final title card tells us of how Valdemar is converted into “una massa semiliquida, una abominevole putrefazione.”
*. We’ve been prepared for the final effect by the heavy emphasis on close-ups of people’s faces, so that the fixation on Valedmar’s face turning into goo and sliding from his skull is all of a piece. It’s also shockingly gory for 1936. It’s much better than what Corman was able to do in 1962. This was Fulci nearly fifty years before the Godfather of Gore hit his stride!
*. Another nice bit of preparation for the climax comes with the women being ushered out of the room and the door shut. This adds to the sense of our getting to see something secret and forbidden.
*. It’s odd that this was such a one-off. It’s really quite well handled, arty but not too arty and with terrific effects. Nevertheless, co-directors Gianni Hoepli and Ubaldo Magnaghi never seemed to go on to do anything else and today this film isn’t very well known. It should be, and if you’re at all interested in horror cinema you should check it out.

Werewolf of London (1935)

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*. This might be thought of as a damp squib: the first (surviving) werewolf movie, but a film that went nowhere. It did, however, lay down some of the basics of the genre, including the idea that being bitten by a werewolf is what infects you with the werewolf curse, and the way the transformation is brought about by moonlight. These were new elements.
*. There’s also something mentioned about how the werewolf “instinctively seeks to kill the thing it loves best,” but nothing much is done with this in the movie (Dr. Glendon seems more intent on killing his rival), and it was an idea that later werewolf movies didn’t do much with. David in An American Werewolf in London mentions it to Alex, but even in that film it doesn’t really come in to play.
*. Taking a step back, the werewolf mythos has its roots in the Jekyll and Hyde story, where beneath our polished exteriors there lurks a hairy beast. Because this is the earliest telling of the werewolf story on film, the relation to Jekyll and Hyde is clearest, and when Dr. Jekyll– I mean, Dr. Glendon — turns into a werewolf and then dons his hat and scarf to go out on the town we know we’re in an earlier, more civilized werewolf universe.
*. Comparisons to The Wolf Man are, to my mind, not unfavourable (but keep in mind that I’m not a big fan of The Wolf Man). The makeup here was also done by Jack Pierce, but it wasn’t as involved. Basically it’s just a widow’s peak (maybe borrowed from Dracula) and protruding lower fangs. It’s not as hairy a get-up, so it lets Henry Hull act, which is nice. Plus it allows for more transformation scenes than are in The Wolf Man.
*. There are some nice touches. I love that giant carnivorous plant they feed the frog to. I also like how the cat looks really pissed off. I wonder what they were doing to it off camera. Dr. Glendon’s closed-circuit security cameras are way ahead of their time — indeed so much so that the plot couldn’t think of anything to do with them. And I thought the touch of having Dr. Glendon re-enact Christ’s agony in the garden before his second transformation was quite a surprise.

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*. Then there are missteps. It’s typical of the love triangles in werewolf movies to be a bit sticky and ambiguous. Even before the end Lisa seems well on her way to an adulterous affair with her old flame Paul (with whom, presumably, she flies away into the credits). The old ladies letting the room are a standard comic bit, and they seem shoehorned in here. Warner Oland, as Dr. Yogami from the University of Carpathia (he’d already become famous as Charlie Chan), could have been a really interesting character, but nothing is done with him. Since the plant only offers a temporary cure for the disease of lycanthropy, it’s hard to even figure out why he’s bothering hunting it down. So he goes a month or two without killing? Then what?
*. I call it “lycanthropy” because that’s it’s name. Here it’s referred to as “werewolfery” (unintentionally funny, and not a word I recall ever hearing again) and “lycanthrophobia,” which suggests something quite different. Chalk it up to this being early days. They didn’t have their story straight.
*. I wouldn’t want to call this a seminal movie, but at the same time I think it would be wrong to overlook it entirely. It doesn’t have the same atmosphere and deeper resonance of The Wolf Man, and probably tries too hard to stay within what were conventions (for example, making the protagonist a scientist), but it’s more than just a footnote. I’m not sure it can be considered the film that properly launched the genre, but it is a kind of missing link between Jekyll and Hyde and where things were going.

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The Most Dangerous Game (1932)

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*. The story, by Richard Connell, is considered one of the most widely anthologized of all time. It’s an archetypal story — the hunter become the hunted when he meets a hunter of men — that Connell gives its neatest and most rapid expression.
*. When it came to Hollywood it had to be Hollywoodized. What this mainly meant was the addition of a love interest. In fiction we are comfortable being on our own, inside the head of a single protagonist. On screen we want company, or at least some eye candy. So enter the lady Eve (Fay Wray) and her dipso brother (Robert Armstrong).
*. It’s worth flagging these basic differences between the film and its source. In the story, Rainsford falls off the yacht when he drops his pipe. Zaroff does use a trick to wreck ships, but that’s not how he gets Rainsford, who comes to him as windfall. In the story there is no Eve and her brother, and so the whole business of Zaroff’s prehistoric, predatory sexuality is invented. “One passion builds on another — first kill, then love,” Zaroff tells us. For “only after the kill does man know the full ecstasy of love.” Is this Zaroff, or Dracula?
*. Overall, the film is a much, much creepier bit of work than the story, which is an inversion of the usual relationship between page and screen. So Zaroff isn’t just émigré Russian nobility (he escaped the Revolution by investing in American securities), afflicted with ennui and indulging a taste for Pol Roger and Chambertin while humming pieces from Madame Butterfly. Now he is a despotic pervert, with a suggestive habit of rubbing the scar on his forehead. What does he want to do with Eve anyway? Surely it’s no coincidence he looks like the satyr in the wall-hanging carrying off the young lady, a figure also represented in the door knocker (the door knocker in the story is a “leering gargoyle,” and there is no tapestry mentioned at all).

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*. That scar isn’t in the story either, but it adds to the eccentric character of Leslie Banks’s Zaroff. Banks had been injured in the First World War and the left side of his face had been partially paralyzed. He made the most of it. Pauline Kael enjoyed “his twisted schizoid face — one half suave Englishman, the other half twisted and with suggestions of exotic evil.”
*. The script gave him every opportunity to ham the part up, with all kinds of double entendres and ironic drippings (“The count will take care of me all right!” “Indeed I shall.”). The direction does nothing to play this down, lighting him to look like a fanatical imp and even in one incredible shot zooming down the staircase into his face.

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*. All of this does more, much more, than simply suggest exotic evil. That wall hanging is tame by comparison with the horrors of the trophy room. A head mounted on the wall, and then one floating in a tank! This is incredible. Indeed, a trophy room of heads would still have the power to shock in Sin City, 70 years later. And yet the trophy room scene was originally even more graphic and disturbing and was only cut when audiences couldn’t take it. Also note how a group of heads (plural) mounted on a wall are featured in the theatrical release poster!
*. It was a remarkable time, at a remarkable studio. Some scenes shot for King Kong had to be cut for their shocking nature as well. And The Most Dangerous Game was the B-side of King Kong, shot at night using the same sets, cast and crew, much as the Spanish version of Dracula was shot — these guys knew how to economize!
*. Even given how over-the-top a production it is, I still could have lived without Robert Armstrong’s character. I also didn’t see how he would have been much of a challenge for Zaroff. The count explains that he sobered up, but I don’t see where he had much time for that, and even if sober he wouldn’t have been the most difficult game. Zaroff mentions giving his other prey a training regime of good food and exercise to get them in shape, and I don’t know why he didn’t offer Armstrong the same. Unless he just couldn’t stand him any longer, or didn’t want him draining his wine cellar.
*. The leads, however, do well enough. Joel McCrae is just a stud, but he’s likeable. I really enjoyed Fay Wray this time out, and I think she provides more than what Kael calls her “usual charming terrified heroine” routine. She has a knowing look that works well with this material.
*. Banks also seems to be enjoying himself even beyond what might have been called for. Were those lines where he mockingly mimics Rainsford in the script, or were they improvised? Or when he offers Armstrong a cigarette after he’s already taken one? These all seem like happy accidents.
*. The result is a fast-paced film that’s filled with loveable nuttiness, and one which truly belies its age. Connell’s story would go on to be adapted many, many times over the years, and yet despite being constantly updated and reinterpreted I don’t think it’s ever been as fresh as it has stayed here.

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