Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 6: Dangerous Waters

Dangerous Waters opens with an unbelievable cliffhanger resolve. Not unbelievably good, unbelievably cheap. I can’t imagine what made me think they wouldn’t go unbelievably cheap. I was clearly giving Dick Tracy too much credit.

After the resolve, the chapter’s back to “formula.” It’s even about a missing scientific formula. Thanks to Kay Hughes reading the newspaper, Ralph Byrd’s able to predict the Spider Gang going after a scientist. So the whole Tracy crew–including nitwit Smiley Burnette, annoying kid Lee Van Atta, and “does all the real work” Fred Hamilton–pile into a car and drive down to the science building.

But they’re too late.

So it’s off to a waterfront bar to try to stop Carleton Young–who seems to know he’s in a bad situation participating in this serial–from selling the formula to a foreign agent.

There’s a lengthy, boring fistfight. It’s kind of funny when Byrd throws something at one of his opponents. Like a shoe. It seems ad-libbed. More ad-libbing might’ve helped.

Byrd and Burnette assault a bunch of guys eating lunch–they never identify themselves as law enforcement and have no probable cause. It is before Miranda, I suppose.

Not a good chapter. Not a lot of godawful acting–though Hughes’s so amateurishly bad she’s sympathetic–and John Picorri’s cat makes another appearance, but it’s still pretty weak stuff.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 5: Brother Against Brother

There’s no great action in Brother Against Brother. There’s what might be a real cliffhanger–Ralph Byrd shot (figure it’s safe to spoil since Byrd’s the lead and it’s chapter five of fifteen). I guess there’s some good effects at the beginning with some of the plane stuff. It doesn’t figure in much to the rest of the chapter, which has Byrd planting a necklace in a plane crash hoping to infiltrate the Spider Gang’s “hangout.”

Byrd and Dick Tracy are down with the hip lingo.

Meanwhile, most of the supporting cast is looking to rescue Byrd. Fred Hamilton has Lee Van Atta, who’s getting more annoying the more he has to do, while Kay Hughes is babysitting Smiley Burnette. The scenes with Hughes and Burnette are really, really rough. She’s amateurishly bad and he’s truly godawful.

Speaking of godawful, on the way to the Spider Gang’s hangout–a big house the dialogue explains to be a closed motel, which doesn’t track given the interiors or exteriors of the pad, but whatever–on the way Byrd hopes in the back of a passing jalopy. Who should be driving but Ed ‘Oscar’ Platt and Lou Fulton; they’re apparently the hillbilly comedy duo, “Oscar and Elmer.”

They’re godawful too.

Luckily they don’t have any scenes with Burnette.

The finale is a shootout around the house, with stuntmen climbing around the exterior. Editors Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney don’t do well with shootouts. All the good cutting (from the effects sequences) is missing.

It’s not a predictable chapter. It’s not an exciting chapter. But at least it’s not a repetitive one.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 4: Death Rides the Sky

Death Rides the Sky does not follow the concerning pattern of the previous two chapters where information falls into Ralph Byrd’s lap and he ignores it only to discover it’s of vital importance.

In Rides, he knows the information of vital importance right off. Cuts down on later confusion.

The chapter opens with a predictably disappointing cliffhanger resolution. Not so much predictable in how it plays out–like, is Byrd ever supposed to be in any real danger–but predictable in being disappointing. There is some of the best direction in the serial during the resolution, however.

After a brief interlude back at Tracy Manor, where old white guys in matching gray suits (with matching pocket squares) show up to ask Byrd for a recap of the previous chapter. That exposition–and a predictably weak comedy sequence with Smiley Burnette and Lee Van Atta–are the last things before Death Rides the Sky goes airborne.

Once it does, the chapter’s pretty awesome. Byrd and sidekick Fred Hamilton (who’s better than I’ve been giving him credit for) have to intercept a dirigible to stop a jewel theft. So they dock in their biplane. The thief’s escape–by parachute–turns into a great chase sequence.

Lots of plane effects, lots of miniatures, all of the effects excellent. It’s a little silly when the bad guys shoot rifles out of their futuristic “Wing” aircraft but whatever.

The action keeps up from the middle to the end of Rides. Not even the return of Burnette and Van Atta can hurt it. Van Atta’s dopey kid behavior causes the cliffhanger, which I hope isn’t a frequent occurrence.

But, yeah, give Dick Tracy some achievable action to visualize and it’s spot on.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 3: The Fur Pirates

With The Fur Pirates, Dick Tracy starts to show some problems; outside the obvious acting ones considering the supporting cast. There’s another fast cliffhanger resolve, with the disaster not being anywhere near as dangerous as originally suggested. After that resolution, there’s some decent special effects–miniature–of the bad guy’s Wing aircraft taking off.

Then the chapter hits the skids. With no investigative leads, Ralph Byrd heads home to hang out with the supporting cast. Smiley Burnette is once again terrible, Kay Hughes is once again underwhelming, Lee Van Atta is once again cloying. Oh, there’s some stuff with the villains, but the most amusing part of a serial chapter shouldn’t be John Picorri’s cat wanting to be let down.

Just like last time, someone gives Byrd a tip he dismisses. Just like last time, it turns out to be important. There’s a ship in the harbor and it’s got a million dollars worth of furs on it. What if someone rips them off?

Better, what if it turns out the Spider Gang is going to rip them off.

There’s some action at the end and it’s not badly conceived, just executed. There’s no way to do a small boat crushed between two big ships with stock footage and second unit stuff. Not without miniatures.

With no solid action in the cliffhanger lead-up, Pirates doesn’t have anything to keep it going. The story isn’t compelling and, while he’s more affable than anyone else, it’s not like Byrd can keep the energy up.

Hopefully something happens next chapter. It’s early for the serial to be in a formulaic rut.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 2: The Bridge of Terror

The Bridge of Terror gets off to a somewhat rocky start. The special effects on the cliffhanger resolution are outstanding. The actual resolution itself? Pretty lazy stuff. It immediately goes into Ralph Byrd (as Dick Tracy) getting in a police plane to track the giant villain aircraft, just called “The Wing.” Little does Byrd know the commander of the Wing is his own brother–Carleton Young–albeit after both plastic surgery and brain surgery. The first to change his appearance, the second to make him evil.

It’s not a dramatic chase sequence, but the special effects are again great so it works out.

Far better than when it’s just Byrd sitting around his office with the supporting cast chewing the expository fat.

Similarly, the action at Byrd’s lab–he goes from the FBI office to his crime laboratory to work at night–is pretty boring. Dick Tracy relies way too heavily on Smiley Burnette and Lee Van Atta for comic relief. Burnette is the lovable, dimwit jackass FBI subordinate and Van Atta is the young orphan Byrd has adopted.

But there are also two men hanging around to tell Byrd he’s too busy to talk to them and then leave. Something similar happens in the office. It’s almost like Dick Tracy’s got too much production value and can’t reign it in.

None of it matters once Byrd and sidekick Fred Hamilton infiltrate the villain’s headquarters. There’s a strong chase sequence, a bunch of good stunts, and just really well-executed action. So well-executed the cliffhanger has to disappoint; it’s back to the models instead of Byrd’s stuntman swinging around a power plant.

Terror’s light on the plot; the action more than compensates and makes up for the draggy office and lab sequences.

Plus mad scientist John Picorri has a cute cat he cuddles while being fiendish.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Dick Tracy (1937, Ray Taylor and Alan James), Chapter 1: The Spider Strikes

The Spider Strikes opens the Dick Tracy serial with an awesome sequence–a group of crime bosses meeting up on a train to meet with the big boss (The Spider). One of them tries to stand up to the unseen Spider, only to have his plans foiled… supernaturally it seems. The Spider then hunts the man down.

It’s an excellent sequence, from the train terminal to the train itself to the streets where the Spider hunts his prey. Photography, editing, direction, acting. All outstanding.

Unfortunately, the rest of the chapter never even hints at being able to get close to that quality height again. There’s a solid murder solution–someone has knocked off a rich guy throwing a charity circus for orphans–and the cliffhanger’s good and the special effects are solid, but the execution is far from graceful.

First big problem is lead Ralph Byrd. He smiles a lot. Directors James and Taylor frequently have one shots where Byrd’s just smiling. Not sure what he’s so happy about, given his brother has disappeared–but the audience knows the Spider has turned him, through plastic and brain surgeries, into a villain–and he’s supposed to be protecting an adorable orphan witness (Lee Van Atta) from the gang.

Byrd’s fine acting opposite the other cast members. It’s just those one shots. Doesn’t help the editing goes out the window after that opening sequence. Oddly, the cuts going from Byrd in two shot to one shot to two shot are technically right on–the editors often do it mid-sentence–but James and Taylor’s direction of the one shots is so bad the good cut doesn’t help. The rest is mostly bad cutting. It’s rarely mediocre.

The supporting cast, at least off Spider, is going to be problematic. Sole female cast member Kay Hughes can’t get her lines out without tripping over the exposition. Smiley Burnette’s lovable dimwit G man sidekick is annoying. Van Atta is cloying. John Picorri is good as the evil surgeon while Carleton Young makes little impression as the evil brother.

The production values make up for a lot–it’s not like Hughes has anything to do in the thirty minute chapter except be a girl in the boys club of the serial–and the cliffhanger’s strong. So the serial itself isn’t off to a rocky start, it’s just got a lot of pebbles in its shoes. Some (much) bigger than others.

CREDITS

Directed by Ray Taylor and Alan James; screenplay by Barry Shipman and Winston Miller, based on a story by Morgan Cox and George Morgan and the comic strip by Chester Gould; directors of photography, Edgar Lyons and William Nobles; edited by Edward Todd, Helene Turner, and William Witney; produced by Nat Levine; released by Republic Pictures.

Starring Ralph Byrd (Dick Tracy), Kay Hughes (Gwen Andrews), Smiley Burnette (Mike McGurk), Lee Van Atta (Junior), John Picorri (Moloch), Carleton Young (Gordon), Fred Hamilton (Steve Lockwood), Francis X. Bushman (Chief Clive Anderson), Wedgwood Nowell (H.T. Clayton), Louis Morrell (Walter Potter), Edwin Stanley (Walter Odette), Ann Ainslee (Betty Clayton), and Milburn Morante (Death Valley Johnny).


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Young and Innocent (1937, Alfred Hitchcock)

Young and Innocent is about Nova Pilbeam (Young) and Derrick De Marney (Innocent). She’s a county police constable’s daughter, he’s an escaped murder suspect. They first meet during his interrogation, when he faints at discovering he’s not just accused of murdering a woman, but that woman has also left him some money. Pilbeam nurses De Marney back to consciousness, rather amusingly. Young and Innocent occasionally has some humor; it pops up irregularly.

Pilbeam’s age is never mentioned–she was seventeen at the time of filming (De Marney was thirty-one), but she’s old enough to have her own car and take care of her five little brothers. She comes off as a lot more thoughtful and aware than De Marney, who’s extremely impulsive. But the Young part of the title doesn’t matter anywhere near as much as the Innocent part. Once on the run, De Marney comes across Pilbeam and convinces her to help him for a while. Then a while longer. Then she’s finally all in.

The film runs a mostly speedy eighty minutes; Pilbeam and De Marney need to go various places to figure out how to prove his innocence. Considering how he gets railroaded by Scotland Yard and, presumably, Pilbeam’s dad (Percy Marmont), it seems unlikely De Marney’s scheme would actually result in the police clearing him. They go all over the English countryside around the small, costal town where the murder’s committed, eventually all the way to the big city in their pursuit of evidence.

The first act, after setting up the murder–the audience knows De Marney is in the clear from the start–and then De Marney’s escape, is Pilbeam’s. It’s about her encountering the fugitive, then deciding to help him. The second act is their mission to find the evidence. Much of Young and Innocent, at least for the first half, is a road movie. Pilbeam and De Marney drive around in Pilbeam’s car, accompanied by her faithful dog, running down some rather contrived leads.

Young and Innocent’s script isn’t ever bad, sometimes far from it, but it’s clearly more interested in playing up the charm between its leads than anything else. De Marney’s got a much flashier role, while Pilbeam’s got to take everything in and react without much expression. She’s fantastic. It’s a performance deserving of a better film. Because it’s an enthralling thriller, but there’s not much ambition to it. There’s none to the script, there’s not much from director Hitchcock. He’s got a couple outstanding shots and some rather inventive sequences–the miniature car chase sequence is brillantly edited by Charles Frend–but he’s concentrating on keeping the brisk pace. The film takes place over something more than forty-eight hours and probably less than seventy-two. The prologue setting up the murder is (presumably) the night before the murder. The detectives railroad De Marney so fast, there are no details of the actual crime. Then there’s the first day, which ends with De Marney and Pilbeam passing out–separately–exhausted from their day. The next day is much faster, with coincidence all of a sudden going against De Marney and Pilbeam instead of always for them.

There are some great sequences. The third act has an extended, sort of intricate (at least in terms of pacing and editing) reveal of the real murderer. That sequence is well-executed. There’s also Pilbeam and De Marney getting stuck at her young cousin’s birthday party. Mary Clare plays her suspicious aunt, Basil Radford the understanding uncle. He just thinks they’re a couple kids in love.

And there the growing tenderness between Pilbeam and De Marney, which is kind of creepy given where their age difference falls on a timeline, but it’s well-done. It humanizes De Marney, who’s sympathetic but a tad cocky. Hitchcock directs their romance, growing out of Pilbeam’s concern and confidence in De Marney’s innocence, rather well. Even with the flashier moments in the film, it’s probably the most successful work Hitchcock does in Young and Innocent. Thanks in no small part to Knowles’s photography and Frend’s editing. Not to mention Pilbeam and De Marney; mostly Pilbeam.

Good supporting performances include J.H. Roberts as De Marney’s bumpkin solicitor and Edward Rigby as a homeless man who figures into the case. Marmont’s good, but his part’s super thin. Hitchcock is able to imply a whole lot about Pilbeam’s home life just around a single luncheon. And Clare could be better. It keeps seeming like she’s about to get better and then she never does; Radford’s rather fun though. Even though it’s technically well-executed, that whole cousin’s party interlude is narratively problematic.

Young and Innocent is an excellent, charming thriller. No heavy lifting requested or required.

3/4★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Alfred Hitchcock; screenplay by Charles Bennett, Edwin Greenwood, Anthony Armstrong, and Gerald Savory, based on a novel by Josephine Tey; director of photography, Bernard Knowles; edited by Charles Frend; produced by Edward Black; released by General Film Distributors.

Starring Nova Pilbeam (Erica Burgoyne), Derrick De Marney (Robert Tisdall), Percy Marmont (Col. Burgoyne), Edward Rigby (Old Will), Mary Clare (Aunt Margaret), Basil Radford (Uncle Basil), John Longden (Det. Insp. Kent), George Curzon (Guy), Pamela Carme (Christine Clay), George Merritt (Det. Sgt. Miller), and J.H. Roberts (Mr. Briggs).


THIS POST IS PART OF THE SECOND ANNUAL ALFRED HITCHCOCK BLOGATHON HOSTED BY MADDY OF MADDY LOVES HER CLASSIC FILMS.


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Parabola (1937, Mary Ellen Bute and Ted Nemeth)

Parábola is a series of objects, usually with parabola shapes (a U), shot at different angles, made with different materials, moving and interacting, with lighting and editing making the objects move or interact in one way or another. The objects are sculptures by Rutherford Boyd; they’re sometimes art deco, sometimes just appear art deco because of directors Bute and Nemeth’s lighting effects.

The short is set to an excerpt from Darius Milhaud’s ballet, La Création du monde. There’s no change in intensity throughout, no suggestion of narrative at all. Examined objects will show up, then disappear, but there’s nothing sequential about the film. There are occasional moments where the music matches perfectly, but there’s always so much movement, of course it will.

There are some exceptional shots in the film, usually with how Bute and Nemeth’s lighting effects or stop motion make the objects “move” onscreen. It’s unclear if the objects themselves are moving or if it’s the camera moving. Doesn’t really matter.

It runs just under nine minutes, going through a whole bunch of objects, which create a whole bunch of different visuals. Even though the parabola shape is in nearly all of them, the objects are often very different.

There’s some really beautiful stuff in Parábola. Bute and Nemeth (and Boyd) command attention.

2/3Recommended

CREDITS

Directed by Mary Ellen Bute and Ted Nemeth; sculptures by Rutherford Boyd.


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Captains Courageous (1937, Victor Fleming)

As Captains Courageous enters its third act, Spencer Tracy (as a Portugese fisherman) reminds Freddie Bartholomew (a spoiled blue blood kid Tracy rescues after he falls overboard from an ocean liner) it’s almost time to go home to his regular life. It’s a shock for Bartholomew, but also for the viewer. Even though the first act is mostly Bartholomew and his regular life–bribing his teachers, threatening his classmates, whining a lot about how his rich dad (Melvyn Douglas) will exact his vengeance–it’s been forever since the film has been anywhere but a fishing boat. Just when the film is sailing its best, Tracy comes along to ring the bell and announce its going to be wrapping up.

Fleming’s direction is strong throughout, but most of the fishing boat scenes are contrained. The transition from second to third acts is when Captains really gets out on the water. Franz Waxman’s score is phenomenal during those sequences; the film’s enraptured with the fishing life. Bartholomew’s on board with it, this obnoxious ten-year-old who–shockingly–becomes a part of the crew.

While setting up Bartholomew’s backstory, screenwriters John Lee Mahin, Marc Connelly, and Dale Van Every keep the film’s focus moving. Sometimes it’s on Bartholomew, sometimes it’s on Douglas, sometimes it’s on tertiary supporting cast members. Fleming handles it fine, but Bartholomew’s always got to be the biggest jerk possible. He’s intentionally unsympathetic. And the film keeps that approach for quite a while once he’s onboard the fishing boat.

The boat’s got this great cast–Lionel Barrymore’s the captain, John Carradine’s a fisherman who can’t stand Bartholomew, Mickey Rooney’s Barrymore’s son and a proven teen fisherman–and Bartholomew clashes with everyone to some degree. Even if he’s not being a complete jerk, there’s a clash. The script starts getting a lot more nuanced in how it positions the characters; another reason it’s become so separated from the boarding school and Bartholomew’s rich kid life. But the film never tries to force a redemption arc on Bartholomew, it’s all character development, it’s all part of his arc.

It works because the acting is so strong, especially in how the actors work off one another. Barrymore’s kind of gruff, but also kind of cuddly. He doesn’t have time to get worked up about Bartholomew being a little jerk, whereas Carradine rages beautifully on it. Even though Rooney’s closest in age to Bartholomew, their relationship never forgets the difference of experiences–something the film brings in beautifully in the third act. Bartholomew and Tracy are wonderful together. Fleming knows it too; he’ll fill the frame with their faces, with the lovely Harold Rosson photography, and the film becomes very heavy and very quiet in this deep, soulful way.

Tracy’s got a strong part and his performance is incredibly measured. He never goes too far with it, never pushes at it. There’s a give and take with the other actors–principally Bartholomew, but also Carradine; Tracy never seems reserved or guarded or even indulgent to his costars. He just keeps the right temperment throughout, which isn’t easy given a lack of both melodrama and action for much of the second act. The film’s tension comes from Tracy’s muted exasperation. It’s awesome. And his curled hair looks great.

The third act has some high points and some lower ones. Captains doesn’t run out of ideas, it runs out of patience for sturdily linking them together. It’s like Fleming knows he can get away with it, thanks to the actors, thanks to Waxman, thanks to Rosson. The script sets up opportunities and the film ignores them, rushing to the end.

Fleming’s right–he can get away with it–especially since the third act gives Barrymore his best moments in the film. As sort of implied, Barrymore’s been sage all along. Only he hasn’t had the motivation, time, or space to reveal it. Barrymore’s always good, but in the third act, he’s phenomenal. It’s a shame the rest of the third act isn’t as successful.

Nice or great performances throughout, strong script, great pace from director Fleming, Captains Courageous almost sails through. It gets bogged down at the finish. It could’ve been better, but it’s still quite good.

3/4★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Victor Fleming; screenplay by John Lee Mahin, Marc Connelly, and Dale Van Every, based on the novel by Rudyard Kipling; director of photography, Harold Rosson; edited by Elmo Veron; music by Franz Waxman; produced by Louis D. Lighton; released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

Starring Freddie Bartholomew (Harvey), Spencer Tracy (Manuel), Lionel Barrymore (Disko), Mickey Rooney (Dan), Melvyn Douglas (Mr. Cheyne), Charley Grapewin (Uncle Salters), John Carradine (Long Jack), Sam McDaniel (Doc), and Oscar O’Shea (Cushman).


blogathon-barrymore

THIS POST IS PART OF THE BARRYMORE TRILOGY BLOGATHON HOSTED BY CRYSTAL OF IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS OF CLASSIC HOLLYWOOD.


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A Day at the Races (1937, Sam Wood)

Until the halfway point or so, A Day at the Races moves quite well. Sure, it gets off to a slow start–introducing Chico as sidekick to Maureen O’Sullivan and setting up her problems (her sanitarium is going out of business), which isn’t funny stuff. I think Allan Jones even shows up as her nightclub singing beau before the other Marx Brothers make an appearance. But once they do, Races gets in gear.

There are a series of excellent sequences, all utilizing the Marx Brothers. Whether it’s Harpo doing physical comedy, Groucho and Chico doing a banter bit–with Harpo joining them in another one a few minutes later–Races uses them to wonderful effect. Director Wood even gets in a fine instrument playing number for Harpo and Chico.

And the supporting cast–O’Sullivan, Margaret Dumont, Leonard Ceeley, Douglass Dumbrille–is strong. Jones is an exception; his performance is broad, but he’s likable enough.

Until the second half, when the film should be giving him more to do acting-wise and doesn’t, instead giving him a long musical number. That long musical number, which leads to Harpo recruiting the nearby poor black workers into the number, kills Races’s pace. The previous musical interlude, with a lengthy (and gorgeous) ballet sequence, is about all it could handle. Maybe because there was great Marx Brothers comedy immediately following.

After the second musical sequence? Uninspired situation comedy. Races manages a satisfactory recovery in the finish, but it can’t make up the time.

3/4★★★

CREDITS

Directed by Sam Wood; screenplay by Robert Pirosh, George Seaton and George Oppenheimer, based on a story by Pirosh and Seaton; director of photography, Joseph Ruttenberg; edited by Frank E. Hull; music by Franz Waxman; released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.

Starring Groucho Marx (Dr. Hackenbush), Chico Marx (Tony), Harpo Marx (Stuffy), Allan Jones (Gil), Maureen O’Sullivan (Judy), Margaret Dumont (Mrs. Upjohn), Leonard Ceeley (Whitmore), Douglass Dumbrille (Morgan), Esther Muir (‘Flo’), Robert Middlemass (Sheriff), Vivien Fay (Dancer), Ivie Anderson (Vocalist) and Sig Ruman (Dr. Steinberg).


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