The Scarlet Letter (1934, Robert G. Vignola)

The Scarlet Letter’s opening title card explains while the Puritan customs might be atrocious to modern eyes, “they were a necessity of the times and helped shape the destiny of a nation.” Not on board with the former, but it’s definitely accurate for the latter. Especially since this version of Letter is about a white man avoiding taking any responsibility for himself until the last possible moment and being a martyr. However, given the third act positions Hardie Albright’s reverend as the protagonist—how could it be about anyone but him, after all, certainly not the woman he canoodled with (Colleen Moore) or their child, born out of wedlock (Cora Sue Collins).

But then the first couple acts were basically all about Henry B. Walthall coming back after two years of being presumed dead to find his wife, Moore, a recent mother. Walthall shows up with a Native American guide (Iron Eyes Cody, but don’t think it’s woke; he was Italian and changed his name) and quickly discovers Moore’s story. It’s the first or second thing everyone’s talking about. They’re going to watch Moore get her scarlet letter while holding her newborn as everyone—including Albright—begs her to reveal the father’s identity. Walthall watches, now significantly invested himself, but Moore refuses. She’s going to carry the burden for both of them.

Moore has subsequent scenes with Albright—confirming he’s the daddy—and Walthall, who reveals his return to life to Moore and pledges vengeance against this unknown baby daddy. He makes her promise not to tell anyone he’s really her husband (he’s taken on a silly name new identity).

Jump ahead five years, and now the baby is Collins, who’s just the age she’s starting to notice the other kids are shitty to her. Meanwhile, the other adults are shitty to Moore. Much of the second act consists of the village ladies shit-talking her, which may pass Bechdel at times (though their God is definitely a dude, so maybe not). That material’s no good. What’s good is Walthall.

Despite Cody—nope, sorry, despite Espera DeCorti—apparently sticking with Walthall the entire time, we don’t get to see him again until the end of the movie for the big finale. He’s just a face in the crowd. Now, Letter’s very low budget—the production design is an incredible mishmash of styles and time periods—so they likely just filmed their crowd scenes together. But still. I spent most of the movie just waiting for the awful way DeCorti would return.

Anyway.

Walthall.

Walthall has become the beloved town doctor and Albright’s best friend. He’s in Moore’s orbit because Moore is a saint who cares for the sick women who’d previously been cursing her. Moore’s got no character arc. She exists to serve Walthall or Albright, but most of her scenes are with Collins for a while, and very little comes from them. Even when Moore’s fighting the town bullies—intellectually—the movie’s careful never to lionize her. Scarlet Letter is a bewildering story to try to tell under the new-at-the-time Hayes Code, and the result is about what one would expect.

Though not Walthall’s Machiavellian plan to ferret out his cuckolder and ruin the man’s life. If he’s got to kill some kids along the way….

Walthall gives a malevolent, deeply disturbing, cruel performance. He’s awesome.

Albright’s not good. He’s also not sympathetic. He needed to be one of them.

Moore’s pretty good, considering, but rarely unqualified. It’s a poorly written part, and director Vignola has no time (or ability) for directing actors.

So then the better performances come from the film’s only running subplot—buddies Alan Hale and William Kent. Hale’s the handyman; Kent’s a… something or other. Doesn’t matter. Kent’s courting Virginia Howell, who’s Moore’s primary detractor, and Albright and Walthall’s landlady, except Kent’s a nebbish and Hale’s a whole lot of man. So Hale and Kent have this series of comedy sequences involving it. Hale’s really good. Kent’s funny. Howell’s a lot better in those parts than when she’s slinging shit at Moore.

Technically, nothing stands out. Leonard Fields and David Silverstein’s script does have some occasionally impressive olde time dialogue—usually for Hale and Kent—where they get to flex for entertainment purposes and not so Moore can wax on about how hard it must be for someone else to have to know she’s in this position and occasionally see her on the street.

But, given the numerous, significant constraints, it could’ve been a whole lot worse. And the scene where Collins tells someone on their planet, Moore’s “A” might be a letter, but on her planet, it stands for “Mommy’s the Best,” is pretty awesome and gives a peek into a better version of the film.

Jewel Robbery (1932, William Dieterle)

Jewel Robbery is a delightful mostly continuous action not-even-seventy minute picture; it’s a play adaptation but never feels stagy, just enthusiastic. Especially once William Powell shows up, then the film revels in his performance. Until he arrives, director Dieterle toggles between showing off filmmaking techniques (with some able cutting courtesy editor Ralph Dawson) and showing off star Kay Francis.

The film opens with a funny bit about state-of-the-art jewel store security, ostensibly setting up something for the eventual, titular heist. Then the action cuts to Francis and sticks with her the rest of the movie. She’s a bored trophy wife who’s only mildly amused by life anymore—she can’t even find a reasonable young stud to have an affair with; her husband’s rich, old, and boring. But he is at least going to buy her a very expensive diamond today. It’s so exciting Francis invites best friend Helen Vinson along to observe the purchase.

All the exposition comes as Francis gets ready for the day in various states of undress, starting with a bubble bath. Jewel Robbery seems immediately dedicated to being a Pre-Code exemplar, although not even scantily clad, decidedly unfaithful Francis is going to compare to where they eventually get.

At the jewelry store, the film introduces the rest of the cast. In addition to Francis and Vinson, there are five more characters to track—shop-owner Lee Kohlmar, special security guard and monumental putz Spencer Charters, Francis’s husband Henry Kolker, Vinson’s husband (presumably, it seems unlikely Kolker would pal around with one of her boyfriends) André Luguet, and Francis’s latest affair, Hardie Albright. Now, Albright and Kolker are blue blood pals, but Albright is determined to win Francis away from him. Except fooling around with Albright has made Francis realize how miserable her affairs have been because he’s such a wet noodle.

Luckily, Francis is still in the shop when gentleman robber Powell and his band of courteous henchmen arrive to rob the place so she can experience some adventure. And Powell’s irresistible charm. The robbery scene is enchanting even without Powell, just the way the robbery is choreographed and how Dieterle and Dawson time the whole thing.

But once Powell puts on Blue Danube to calm the victims and accompany the robbers in their task, he’s the whole show, keeping everyone (particularly Francis and the audience) amused. Once it becomes clear Francis has recognized his potential for fresh excitement in her life, they gradually move into banter. There’s still stuffed shirts Albright and Kolker to deal with, as they don’t consent to smoking dope to chill out with Kohlmar.

Literally.

A major plot point in Jewel Robbery is straight edges getting stoned and chilling out about the whole robbery thing. Powell provides them with marijuana cigarettes for just that purpose. It’s hilarious the first time, but when it comes back later with some very unexpected participants for the film’s single subplot… it’s hilarious.

It’s also more than the resolution can ever hope to surpass. Powell and Francis doing a fifteen or twenty minute Pre-Code flirtation dance (not literal dance, there’s actually no dancing, even though it’s kind of foreshadowed)… it’s great, they’re charming—Francis keeps up impressively with Powell—but it’s not a laugh riot. It’s charming and glamorous and risqué; all good just not substantive. Though it’d be kind of hard to get super substantive in sixty-eight minutes.

So instead a delightful amusement, with an often beguiling Powell performance. Francis is good, especially after she gets dressed and gets some character. The supporting cast is all solid, though for whatever reason Dieterle can’t direct Vinson and Francis together. The script goes one way and he goes sort of screwball… it doesn’t work. Otherwise Dieterle’s direction is excellent. Erwin Gelsey’s script has a number of good jokes and a fine pace.

Oh, and an inspired cameo from Clarence Wilson.

Jewel Robbery’s a lot of fun.

The Purchase Price (1932, William A. Wellman)

For most of its seventy-ish minute run time, The Purchase Price does really well with the way it does summary. It does so well it never even seems possible the film’s just going to welch on everything in the third act… but rather unfortunately, it does.

The big problem is how the film–specifically Robert Lord’s script–is eager to slut shame star Barbara Stanwyck for exploitative purposes. The only scenes Lord can figure out scenes for Stanwyck and mortified husband George Brent involve him disapproving of her, first for being–apparently (but not exactly)–a cold fish (she refused his violent urges on their wedding night)–and then for being too warm of a fish. But, again, not exactly. Lord avoids resolving any of the issues, not just with Brent’s multiple hangups but also outstanding story issues like Stanwyck’s former beau, gangster Lyle Talbot, and Brent’s own farming foe, David Landau.

And Price can get away with a lot because director Wellman and star Stanwyck are on it. They make the too abbreviated summary work. Because the film’s not a fish out of water story, it’s what ought to be an unbelievable story about night club singer Stanwyck losing her chance at a dream marriage to jackass blue blood Hardie Albright because of her previous relationship with Talbot (who’s a lovable bootlegging adulterer–one wonders if Lord remembered Talbot’s supposed to have a wife somewhere when he’s going cross country to pursue Stanwyck) and how she ships herself out as a mail-order bride to escape Talbot. She thinks she’s going out to a standard North Dakota wheat farm, full of affable drunken neighbors and, eventually, babies. Instead, Brent’s this oddball agricultural college boy who cares more about the miracle wheat he’s spent eleven years cultivating, doesn’t get along with his neighbors, and has secret money troubles.

Brent wasn’t expecting beautiful, cultured, smart Stanwyck (she paid off her maid, Leila Bennett, to take over as mail-order bride–which worked out fine since Bennett had sent along Stanwyck’s photo in communications with Brent, who–for his part–lied about his farm and didn’t send a photo in return). After their whirlwind wedding ceremony–uncredited Clarence Wilson is a perfect creep as the justice of the peace–they’re off to the farm. But not before both Brent and the film itself have mocked the simple prairie folk. Though the film mocks them more than Brent does, which is unfinished subplot–though Brent’s character development and basic establishment isn’t really any of Price’s concern. It’s like they knew he wouldn’t be able to appropriately slut shame Stanwyck in the third act if they explored him being a dick. Sure, Landau’s a bad guy and a creep, but Brent’s a dick.

He also tries to rape Stanwyck on their wedding night, which she immediately forgets because, well, he’s a man, but apparently sets Brent on a self-loathing kick. But it’s all off-screen and Lord’s characterization of Brent in the script doesn’t do enough for it either. He’s a jerk, but for unclear reasons. And since the film’s already established him as a dick, a jerk isn’t a long walk.

In a string of barely connected vignettes–Stanwyck getting to be a better farm homemaker, though she basically throws herself into it right off and is awesome at it–time progresses, winter arrives, Stanwyck becomes the community member Brent never did, so on and so forth. Finally Brent and Stanwyck have it out and then, through a very strange euphemism device (given how far the film’s willing to go–pre-code and all–in the first act and third, it’s weird how uncomfortable it gets for an implied big romance development), get on the same page.

Only then Talbot finally tracks down Stanwyck, coming simultaneous to Landau making a big move on Brent’s property, and it’s high drama time.

And it’s all bad high drama with Stanwyck working against the script to retain character and Brent just… giving up? What’s strangest about Brent’s performance is he actually starts as a good old egg. He’s a little weird, sheltered, but cute. That character disappears once he attacks Stanwyck. Then Brent acts like he’s in this “It’s a Husband’s Right” movie while Stanwyck and Wellman are making a “It’s not a Husband’s Right but She’ll Give Him a Second Chance” movie, while Lord’s script is setting up the slut shaming third act.

It’s weird. Because what Stanwyck and Wellman are doing works. Stanwyck makes the role work. Even with so little help from Brent, who’s not terrible he just has a godawful role. Meanwhile Talbot’s great and runs with the character. The idea of the New York society gangster fitting in at North Dakota bar? It’s a hoot. For the five or ten seconds the film lets Talbot do anything with it.

There’s some great direction from Wellman (along with some very weird direction), all of it with Sidney Hickox’s amazing cinematography. Even when Wellman makes a bad composition choice, Hickox’s photography makes it a good shot. When Wellman’s on, however, they’re all phenomenal shots. The desolate exterior shots are amazing (and way too brief) but so are the desolate exterior sound stage shots. Wellman gives Purchase Price a scale the script doesn’t deserve.

So it’s a ninety percent great role for Stanwyck, who’s fantastic and implies all the character development Lord skips over. It’s a ten percent great role for Brent, who’s tiresome by the time he’s pissed off about Talbot, which is way too early for him to be tiresome. Also, given he’s supposed to be sympathetic he should never get too tiresome. Brent’s character is the problem with Purchase Price. It’s not on him, not where Lord takes things.

Talbot’s great one hundred percent of the time.

Landau’s good as the lecherous farming rival, Murray Kinnell’s the effectively slimy henchman. He’s not in it much, then he gets important fast in the third act. Purchase Price needed another fifteen minutes. And a good script doctor.

Anyway. The rest of the supporting cast is fine. Anne Shirley almost stands out as a scared teenager Stanwyck bonds with. Victor Potel unfortunately does stand out as an in-bred yokal who gets way too much plotting relevance. The film’s take on the community changes, but then calls back Potel after it has. It’s really weird and bad choice. Though Lord makes so many of them, they blur.

The third act spills are a big disappointment, because the film was all set to pull it off. Then deus ex machina is practically a non sequitur and the film collapses. It’s a bummer. Stanwyck and Wellman did much better work than Price deserves.

And Talbot. And even Brent, who never got a chance.

This post is part of the Second Remembering Barbara Stanwyck Blogathon hosted by Crystal of In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood and Maddy of Maddy Loves Her Classic Films.