Tag: Henry Kolker

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.

Mad Love (1935, Karl Freund)

Not even halfway through Mad Love’s sixty-seven minute runtime it’s clear all the film’s going to have to do to succeed is not to fail, which isn’t going to be easy. The film’s about a brilliant surgeon (Peter Lorre) who’s sort of publicly stalking married stage actress Frances Drake. Now, he falls in love with her during her performance at a “theater of horrors” where an audience full of men get off on Drake being tortured for cheating on her husband. There’s a lot to unpack right off in Mad Love, it’s awesome.

Right at the end of her performance, it appears Drake—in character—confesses her lover’s name so the husband can go and kill him, having sufficiently literally branded his wife into place. That moment’s when Lorre gets the most excited.

Off stage, Drake has been married to successful pianist Colin Clive for a year and they haven’t been able to even honeymoon yet because he’s touring and she’s acting. It’s finally time for them to meet up, right after her cast party (the theater is closing for the season too) and getting to finally meet Lorre, after he’s rented out the most expensive box in the theater for almost fifty performances in a row.

Lorre—rather appropriately given he’s about to buy a wax dummy of Drake (without her knowledge)—creeps Drake out. But she’s got the medical connection when it turns out she’s going to need it because husband Clive has been in a train accident and his hands are mangled. Only Lorre can save him. And he’ll move heaven and earth for Drake’s gratitude.

He’ll even, maybe, cut the hands off a recently executed murderer to give them to Clive. After all, the murderer was an expert knife thrower; might come in handy for a concert pianist. Lorre has no way of knowing Clive has already met the “donor” (Lorre knows about their availability because in addition to watching women pretend to get tortured, he never misses an execution).

When the hands seemingly take a life of their own, Lorre sees another opportunity to get close to Drake, who’s still just trying to help suffering husband Clive, and, well, as they do… complications ensue.

There are a lot of constraints on Mad Love. A lot of impossible (thanks to the Production Code if not moral decency) outcomes and quite a few unlikely ones. So a satisfactory resolution is always in question. But the film gets there all right. It’s got some genuine humdingers of scenes—no other word—when Lorre all of a sudden pivots to another extreme and is fantastic in it. The whole movie rests on him.

Not to discount the other actors, who are all great—Mad Love’s got an amazing cast—but it’s the Peter Lorre show and no one can pretend otherwise.

Drake’s really good—she’s got an incredible suspense sequence to get through in the third act and nails it—Clive’s good, though he gets the least material of the three leads. Then there’s the supporting cast and it’s a doozy. Because even though Mad Love is set in Paris and tries its best to be (broadly) European, it’s also got some American flavor. Starting with Edward Brophy in a jaw-dropper cameo as the convicted murderer on his way to the guillotine. Brophy turns the Hollywood New Yorker to eleven and has a ball. It’s astounding director Freud is able to maintain it without just breaking the film in two.

While Brophy isn’t in the film for very long, the film moves the American bull in the Parisian china shop chores along to Ted Healy, who plays a pushy New York reporter in town to cover the execution (Brophy’s an American citizen being executed) and also to get famous philanthropist surgeon Lorre to write some articles for his paper. See, Lorre doesn’t accept any payment and instead uses his skills and develops these miracle procedures to help children and maybe soldiers. He’s a saint.

Who just happens to get off on torture and death, which none of the locals really notice since he’s such a saint but Healy thinks something hinky is going on.

It’s so good, so weird, so not.

Excellent direction from Freud, photography from Chester A. Lyons and Gregg Toland, and editing from Hugh Wynn. Wynn’s got some exquisite sequences, including a downright successful dream montage.

Just for being itself, Mad Love has a bunch of hurdles to clear and it sails over them, finishing better than one could hope given said hurdles. Its snaking to get through the Code is an achievement on its own, but Lorre, Freud, and Drake all score big by the end.

Lorre’s simply magnificent.

I Like Your Nerve (1931, William C. McGann)

While I Like Your Nerve is urbanely genial, it’s a somewhat high concept romantic adventure comedy.

Douglas Fairbanks Jr. is a playboy–though not one of means–living it up in South America. He travels from country to country (they are, of course, so small he can drive) and stirs up trouble. But then he sees Loretta Young and it’s love at first sight.

Luckily she’s engaged (or Nerve would have no plot) and he has to win her away from her fiancé. The fiancé in question, played by Edmund Breon, is an old pervert with the runs. Literally. Nerve is gloriously indiscreet in its character details, a benefit of being pre-Code (another example is Fairbanks’s buddy, Claud Allister, who’s out of the closet).

Here’s where the high concept comes in… Fairbanks doesn’t so much have to win Young’s affections, but he needs to deal with her corrupt, but lovable, step-father (Henry Kolker) who’s selling her to Breon. Kolker is a government official, so Fairbanks has to tread lightly.

Nerve never gets particularly good, but it’s always mildly charming… sort of like Fairbanks. The whole point of his performance is to be charming; he succeeds. A textured performance isn’t his goal.

Young shows a fair amount of range in her role, though it’s a poorly written one. Kolker and Breon are both okay; once they get together and start arguing they’re fantastic.

Peter Fritch’s weak editing hurts McCann’s otherwise sturdy direction a bit.

Nerve is a pleasant diversion.

2/4★★

CREDITS

Directed by William C. McGann; screenplay by Roland Pertwee, based on an adaptation by Houston Branch; director of photography, Ernest Haller; edited by Peter Fritch; music by David Mendoza; released by Warner Bros.

Starring Douglas Fairbanks Jr. (Larry O’Brien), Loretta Young (Diane Forsythe), Henry Kolker (Areal Pacheco), Claud Allister (Archie Lester), Edmund Breon (Clive Lattimer) and Boris Karloff (Luigi, Pacheco’s butler).

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The Mystery Man (1935, Ray McCarey)

I hope Robert Armstrong got paid well for The Mystery Man, because it doesn’t do him any other good. While it’s nice to see Armstrong in a lead role, the film’s so incompetently produced, it’s sometimes painful. Armstrong acts well but director McCarey doesn’t know how to compose shots. You’ll get what should be a close-up as a medium shot. Of course, the script’s bad too so Armstrong’s working against it too.

The plot isn’t terrible—Armstrong’s a newspaper reporter with more ego than sense who finds himself broke after a week-long bender. He meets Maxine Doyle, who’s in similar financial straits. The problem with the film is mostly Doyle. If she were any good, the film might be charming, regardless of technical merits and writing. But she’s awful—just painfully bad.

But so’s the rest of the supporting cast. Armstrong’s sidekicks, played by James P. Burtis, Monte Collins and Sam Lufkin, all awful. His bosses—Henry Kolker and James Burke—awful. Guy Usher turns in the closest thing to a decent performance, but he’s not good by any stretch.

Meanwhile, there’s Armstrong moving through these inept actors, trying to do what he can with the bad dialogue, on the incredibly cheap sets (the hotel suite appears to be the newspaper editor’s office too, based on the wall design)… and he maintains some dignity.

The concept isn’t bad; it could have been a good leading man vehicle for Armstrong… instead of an unfortunate, disappointing entry in his filmography.

The Ghost Walks (1934, Frank R. Strayer)

I’m not sure when the “old dark house” mystery film started–I haven’t seen any silent entries in the genre but I imagine there must be some, especially since the genre also appears to have been popular on stage. The Ghost Walks, in 1934–five years into talkies–shows the genre staling already. In an inventive plot development, it turns out the initial mystery of Walks is a fake, a performance arranged by a playwright (John Miljan) to impress Richard Carle’s Broadway producer.

It’s a fine plot development, only it occurs about fifteen minutes into the film, which means Charles Belden then needs to come up with an all new mystery. Though it does provide some humor–Carle and his assistant, Johnny Arthur, don’t believe the performance is over, even with people dying.

Belden comes up with another inventive plot point nearer the end. Not something I can share without spoiling a rather solid surprise (with a weak explanation, unfortunately). Belden has good ideas–he just doesn’t engagingly package them. I’m shocked he was able to withhold the final reveal, since he so impatiently revealed the play deception.

None of the acting’s unacceptable, though leading lady June Collyer is weak (while supporting Eve Southern is solid).

Miljan is a decent lead and Carle and Arthur’s bickering is amusing. It’s unfortunate Donald Kirke’s would be rapist never gets his comeuppance.

Director Strayer is clearly better than the material. He knows how to keep the actors moving, even if the script drags.

1/4★

CREDITS

Directed by Frank R. Strayer; written by Charles Belden; director of photography, M.A. Anderson; edited by Roland D. Reed; produced by Maury M. Cohen; released by Chesterfield Motion Pictures Corporation.

Starring John Miljan (Prescott Ames), June Collyer (Gloria Shaw), Richard Carle (Herman Wood), Henry Kolker (Dr. Kent), Johnny Arthur (Homer Erskine), Spencer Charters (Guard), Donald Kirke (Terry Shaw), Eve Southern (Beatrice), Douglas Gerrard (Carroway) and Wilson Benge (Jarvis).

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