THE ENCHANTED CO-OP

 I was going to submit this piece to NPR's Next Avenue until federal funding cuts were putting it to bed permanently. Since I couldn't find any other senior-related sites that paid for submissions, I figured if anyone was not going to give me money, it might as well be me. 

Ever since Thomas Edison released a 26-second short called The Kiss in 1896,
people have flocked to romantic movies. Nothing moves audiences like two people who meet, fall in love, and confront seemingly insurmountable obstacles before winding up in each other’s arms.

Then there are even rarer occasions where people claim to identify with the onscreen lovers. Not me. Oh, I appreciate a well-made romance but have never lost myself in the reverie running into an old flame in Casablanca, standing at the bow of a doomed ocean liner, or dating a mermaid who looks like Daryl Hannah.

That feeling would change, however, after being married half my 69 years. Appropriately, it was a silent movie made a century ago, when filmmakers were unafraid to display their hearts proudly on their sleeves, and audiences enjoyed having a good cry. Which is why I watch movies like that after my wife has gone to bed.

The movie in question, The Enchanted Cottage, all but demands that you keep a box of tissues close at hand. War veteran Oliver Bashforth, his body twisted and maimed in battle, his eyes sunken and hollow, leads a hermit-like existence in a small town where nobody knows him. Laura Pennington, a homely spinster, enters his life as his housekeeper, leading Oliver to eventually propose marriage. Not out of love, mind you, but to stave off loneliness.

But on their wedding night, the two magically see each other’s beauty, and fall deeply in love. It’s only when Oliver invites guests over are he and Laura reminded they’re as homely as ever. And one of those guests is blind! (Never let a sightless person run his sensitive hands over your face.)

With their magic spell broken, Oliver and Laura go to bed dejected, depressed, and otherwise defeated. Yet upon awakening, they once again see each other’s true beauty. No longer willing to be controlled by what people say about them, the couple are determined to face the world as they are, knowing in their hearts that beauty is far more than skin deep.

Corny? Like a farmer’s market in the middle of summer. Old-fashioned? Get out the whisky and bitters. Effective? On a corny, old-fashioned sucker like me, for sure. There’s something ethereal about silent movies like The Enchanted Cottage that makes it seem like you’re experiencing a dream come to life. In a time where cynicism seems to be life’s default setting, something so unabashedly romantic is startling in its innocence.

Was it possible to replicate that feeling in real life? I got the answer some days later.

My wife Sue and I had spent the afternoon walking around lower Manhattan looking for home supplies I didn’t know we needed. It was the kind of hot, sticky humid day that New York City happily offers its residents every August whether we want it or not (and we never do).

We must have looked pretty beat when stepping into the crowded subway car for our ride home. A younger couple – like, by roughly 45 years – insisted on giving up their seats for us. While my wife is always happy to accept this offer, I tend to refuse, taking it as an insult instead of an act of kindness. I mean, what do they think I am, a senior citizen?

This time, the 85-degree heat and 90% humidity made me think twice. Actually, I didn’t have to think at all, seeing that I pretty much collapsed in the seat barely before the young man was entirely on his two feet.

Sue and I didn’t find it necessary to say out loud what we were thinking: We. Are. Old. We had a good run as an attractive, energetic young couple for many years, but there’s no stopping the wrinkled hands of Father Time.

That evening when getting into bed, we talked about our day – mainly how we didn’t buy what I knew we didn’t need. As we turned on our sides to face one another, a strange thing happened. As I gazed to Sue, I said in astonishment, “You look just like you did when we were dating!”

“So do you!” she replied, equally stunned. Whatever ravages of time were there earlier in the day had vanished. Suddenly we were no longer seniors. We were now the age when we met almost 35 years earlier.

Our eyes locked, as we lay stunned by what was happening, caught up in the near mystical moment, delighting to be in our thirties again, feeling the promise of a long, shared life still before us.

We were reminded how beauty is right in front of us when seen through eyes of love. And despite the occasional bump life places in front of us all, love and, yes, beauty are always there. All you have to do is look for it.

Now, it’s not like we think we’re living in a black & white silent fantasy. Last I looked, Sue was facing another birthday. As for me, I still can’t take ten steps on a humid day without panting like a Newfoundland dog in Bali Bali. But those bumps disappear when we arrive home once more. Our enchanted co-op always works it magic on us.

A good air conditioner in the living room doesn’t hurt, either.

                                                      ****************

THEY'LL GIVE YOU A WRING

 

An establishment Democrat in prayer.

For all the grief Democrats are getting from friend and foe alike, you have to give them credit for one thing: when it comes to opposing Donald Trump, nobody is better at wringing their hands.

He wins the 2024 election? Wring their hands. Appoints conspiracy theorists to his cabinet? Wring their hands. Sends armed military to the streets of Los Angeles and Washington, DC? Double-wring. (The only reason Trump hasn't sent tanks into New York is because we don't do handwringing when punching back is an option.)

But it's not just the human jack-o'lantern in the White House making Democrats wondering What do we do? Now it's the chance of a genuinely popular Democrat becoming Mayor of New York.

Memo to Democrats: times are changing.

By now, Zohran Mamdani needs no introduction -- unless it's to Andrew Cuomo who continues to deliberately mispronounce his name, or to Eric "Turkey Trot" Adams, our current delusional mayor who currently polls at 9%, eight points behind GOP nominee Curtis Sliwa (he of the red beret). Mamdani himself currently polls seven points higher than his Democrat rivals combined.

So what is the official Democrat response to Mamdani's Obama-like popularity here? Hand wringing, of course. As of now, none of the party old guard (emphasis on old) has endorsed him. 

Their worries are threefold. 1) The young guy is a threat to their stranglehold on the party. 2) He's a Socialist Democrat. 3) He'll scare away potential disaffected Trump voters by associating all Democrats with the hammer & sickle.

To address their concerns: 1) That's the point. 2) Vermont keeps re-electing socialist-Democrat Bernie Sanders. 3) That red train has left the station. 

Good luck changing their minds.

Focusing on number three: A recent Gallup poll finds 93% of Republicans approve of the president and his antics. Ninety-three percent! That's one-third of the country. And we're not even including Trump's congressional lapdogs.

To Chuck Schumer, Hakeem Jeffries, Kathy Hochul and the other Democrats who continue to cry We need to get Trump voters on our side, I ask them if they ever read a history book or even remember events during their own lifetimes.

Benito and his babe seeing the world
differently after he loses his base.

Italians didn't execute Benito Mussolini and his sidepiece before hanging them upside down because a fascist-lite candidate from a (non-existing) opposing party ran against him.  Hitler didn't kill himself because German voters wanted to vote for a different Nazi without a funny-looking moustache. 

Let's move on to the U.S.  Lyndon Johnson didn't abstain from running for re-election and Richard Nixon didn't resign from office because they felt shame for their actions. 

Does anybody see a pattern here? Only Trump can defeat Trump. The same goes for his acolytes. 

This is what upsets Republicans.

Mamdani's race, religion, and politics will have nothing to do with how Republicans vote nationwide. Nor will Gavin Newsom's admittedly funny trolling. It's only when GOP policies really start having an effect on them, whether it be regarding their health, tariffs, deregulation, or seeing their employees swept up by masked ICE stormtroopers will they even begin to realize they might be in trouble. 

Say, I've got an idea for the Dem establishment: Support the candidates that excite their voters! I mean, it worked for Obama (after trying to get him to drop out in favor of the utterly unlikeable Hillary Clinton). Meanwhile, they'll just have to accept the fact that they will never get the vote of people like these:

 Somewhere, Bobby Kennedy is looking down at his idiot son and wondering, This is what I got my brains blown out for? 

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PAINT IT, BLACK (TRUMP 2025 REMIX)

 

I see a big wall 

and I want it painted black,

To make it really hot 

and turn Latinos back.

I see the Mexicans 

Each time I look outside,

We're going to sweep them up 

and take them for a ride.

I see a line of men 

and they look almost black,

They're taking all our jobs, 

they're going to get the sack.

Democrats will wring their hands 

but will not do anything

G.O.P. is scared of me, 

they treat me like a king.

I look inside myself 

and see my soul is black,

My fans all love that, 

they will never give me flack.

Right until my dying day 

they'll always vote for me.

They'll paint that giant wall 

and do it all for free.

No more will my white land 

go turn a deeper brown

We're going to paint that wall 

and turn them right around.

If I talk tough enough, 

they all will disappear

I'll rule by force and greed, 

fill everyone with fear.

I see a big wall 

and want it painted it black

To make it really hot 

and turn dark people back

I see the Mexicans 

each time I look outside,

We're going to sweep them up 

and take them for a ride.

I want to see it painted, painted it black,

Round them up, send them back.

I wanna see them all

Blotted out from our land.

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted,

Painted black...

                                                 *****************

BREAKING NEWS: 8/22/2025

The FDA advised Walmart customers in a press release not to “eat, sell, or serve certain imported frozen shrimp” from an Indonesian distributor, BMS Foods, due to possible contamination with the radioactive isotope, cesium-137.

"In our defense," a company spokesman said, "anyone who buys shellfish at Walmart is asking for trouble."

Attorneys for Aviva Copaken sued United Airlines, saying that their client Copaken flew three times this year and paid to reserve a window seat. “On each of the three occasions, she was disappointed to discover that her ‘window’ seat did not have a window at all,” the suit said. “She paid between $45.99 and $169.99 to select the ‘window’ seat on each of those flights.”

Company spokesman Harry Lillis said, "This person falls for the 'no window seat' gag three times in a row, and we're the problem?"

In related news, Delta Airlines was also sued for selling windowless "window seats" to passengers.

In response, a Delta spokesman told reporters, "The way our planes have been in accidents lately, you think they'd be grateful not to look out the window."

A new, 8-CD edition of the Beatles Anthology collection has been announced, adding to the seemingly never-ending releases from the band that broke up 55 years ago.

An Apple Records spokesman said, "This is further proof that the magic of the Beatles reaches across generations to find people willing to spend ridiculous amounts of money every time we regurgitate the same stuff with new packaging." 

Hallmark eliminated 30 jobs on Wednesday in an effort to “transition our workforce to meet the needs of the business today.”

In an internal memo, Hallmark CEO Sid Davis told staffers, "On the other hand, this is a wonderful chance to create a whole new line of 'Sorry you lost your job' cards."

New York Mayor Eric Adams was said to be "shocked" when learning that campaign aide Winnie Greco tried three times to give a reporter a potato chip bag filled with cash, claiming it was a "cultural gesture" rather than a bribe. 

Adams said, "I will not stand for anyone in my administration eating potato chips when dried kale is much healthier!"

Rock star Jack White has unleashed a blistering takedown of Donald Trump,
labeling the president a “low life fascist”.

On his Truth Social account, Trump responded with, "I AM NOT A LOW LIFE!"

                                                                                                                                                                                    ****************

DEAD END

 

If anyone has enjoyed my contributions to Next Avenue, I'm sorry to say that the
piece that was just posted will be my final one. Due to the federal cuts to PBS, the site is shutting down in the coming months; they aren't accepting any more freelance pieces until then.  

But hey, at least Elon Musk gets a tax cut, while all the rubes who voted for Trump to "shake up Washington" get to pay more in taxes, as well as losing nearby hospitals, forking out more for meds, and everything else that was obvious to anyone with a half a brain. Meanwhile, I lose my occasional 300 bucks per submission. Yes, all in all a good trade-off. 

Appropriately, the piece concerns aches and pains:

The Human Barometer | Next Avenue

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THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 56

 The genres are all over the map today -- Western, mystery, horror, and film noir. Each has a twist from the usual movies of their type, making them stand out either for the good or like a sore thumb.

LAW AND ORDER (1932): The year is 1890. Ex-lawman Fame Johnson, his brother Luther, and two sidekicks Ed Brandt and Deadwood, mosey into Tombstone, Arizona, where the residents are terrorized by the crooked sheriff and a gang of cattle rustlers. (Stop me if this is starting to sound vaguely familiar.) Fame is talked into become Tombstone's marshal, a development the galloots don't take kindly to. When Ed Brandt is shot down in the middle of Main Street, Fame and his posse decide it's time to meet up with the bad guys for a gunfight at --

Oh, you know where. Law and Order is a barely fictionalized version of the shootout at the O.K. Corral, with only the date and names changed. This doesn't negate the fact it's a topnotch Western -- high praise from a non-fan of the genre like me -- and, for my money, better than the more highly regarded My Darling Clementine, the 1946 version of the story directed by John Ford. It's about 30 minutes shorter, too, earning it an extra gold star.

I wouldn't be surprised if the star of Clementine, Henry Fonda, studied Huston's performance in Law and Order, as the two are often eerily alike. Of the two, I prefer Huston, one of the great movie actors of his time who doesn't get enough respect these days, and whose stage work didn't prevent him from being wholly natural in the entirely different style of movies. Watch how he makes dimwit killer Andy Devine (younger and thinner than you've ever seen him) feel good about his execution by reminding him that he's the first person to be legally hanged in Tombstone. You'd want to be arrested by a guy like Fame.

All of the supporting actors, especially Harry Carey as Ed Brandt, evoke the Old West more realistically than other studio Westerns of the time. Their clothes are often covered in dirt and dust and grime; they use the same towel to wash their faces and clean their shoes; their eyes reflect the deaths they've witnessed and participated in. Further making it a must-see, Law and Order (written by Walter Huston's 26-year-old son John) was recently restored for a 4K Blu ray, making it look and sound as good as it did nearly a century ago. Maybe better. Like I said, I've never been into Westerns, but Law and Order is one I'll return to more than once in the future. 

BONUS POINTS: The use of Universal's famous crane used in the 1929 musical Broadway, especially during the astonishing climactic shootout. And don't miss skinny Walter Brennan as the guy who sweeps out the local saloon. At age 38, he was toothless even then.

THE GHOST CAMERA (1933):
Good Lord, man, where has this delightful, fast-paced, 64-minute "mystery narrative" from the UK been hiding all my life? With a little tweaking, The Ghost Camera could pass for one of Alfred Hitchcock's early British talkies.

Finding a camera in the back seat of his car, John Gray develops the film hoping to identify the owner. Instead, one of the shots has captured a murder -- a photo which, along with the camera, quickly goes missing. John tracks down a woman in another photo, Mary Elton, whose brother Ernest vanished days earlier with the camera. As John and Mary follow the other photographic clues, they find the scene of the murder just as the police find Ernest. While the evidence is stacked against Ernest, John inadvertently saves the day when finding the real culprit.

If only all British "quota quickies" were as good as The Ghost Camera, starting with the twisty, occasionally risqué script by H. Fowler Mear (there's a British name for you!). I was and continue to be unfamiliar with Henry Kendall, who is memorable as John; he's like the prototype of the young Hugh Grant mixed with Edward Everett Horton. In one of her earliest roles, the nearly unrecognizable pre-Hollywood Ida Lupino is appealing as Mary, who seems to be hiding a very important secret. She's supposed to be 20-ish but, if Lupino's birthdate is correct, was actually 15! Well, people aged faster then, that's for sure.

Along with Lupino, there are a couple of other yet-to-be famous names found here. John Mills plays Ernest as the innocent guy who looks guilty, as when he makes his first entrance into the courtroom, twitching and stumbling like he's already being led to the gallows. The pitch perfect editing in that scene -- and throughout The Ghost Camera -- is the work of future director David Lean. Everyone in fact gives their all to what was intended as just another bottom-of-the-bill picture but today should be considered as an unjustifiably overlooked bit of British cinema.

BONUS POINTS: Upon entering the ruins of a 12th-century castle, a nervous Ida Lupino says the surroundings give her "a case of the jimjams", a phrase I hope to re-enter into everyday conversation.

CRY OF THE WEREWOLF (1944): Universal pretty much had the lycanthropy lore to
itself, first with Werewolf of London and, later, The Wolfman until Columbia got into the game with Cry of the Werewolf.  Columbia made an unexpectedly nice switcheroo by casting a woman, Nina Foch, as the hellish human hound. And in a regrettable example of genetics, Foch's Celeste is a werewolf by birth, courtesy of her late mother. Celeste is determined to rip the throats out of anyone connected to a museum featuring proof of her heritage. Such a loyal child!

Yet Cry of the Werewolf doesn't veer too far from what people were expecting. Celeste is the leader of an Eastern European gypsy "family" which apparently took a wrong turn outside Budapest and wound up in New Orleans. Further confusing things, two of the movie's characters are British, while nobody has a Louisiana accent. It's actually rather surprising that this mishmash doesn't include a Nazi professor trying to breed his own werewolves to unleash in America. Maybe Monogram already tried that gag.

If you recognize Nina Foch, Barton MacLane (as the gruff police lieutenant) may ring a bell as well. If not, you won't recognize anybody in the cast, even if the romantic leads deserve a negative mention. Stephen Crane -- not the guy who wrote Red Bad of Courage -- has the presence of stale popcorn. His onscreen honey, Osa Massen, was probably Columbia's answer to Republic's Vera Hruba Ralston, right to the hard-to-pin-down accent and relentless state of confusion.

Despite my japes, Cry of the Werewolf is ultimately a perfectly watchable B-movie war weary audiences were desperate for to provide any kind of distraction for an hour. Save it for when all you can find on TV is junk -- in other words, any evening.

BONUS POINTS: Washing out of show business after only two more movies, Stephen Crane found his calling by creating the Kon Tiki restaurant chain. Another round of Zombies, Steve!

                                                         

DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN (1959): Ahh, the comforting pre-credit
sequence of so many '50s noirs: Times Square at night seen through a car's rear window, with the familiar ADMIRAL TELEVISION APPLIANCES neon sign in the background, accompanied by a lonely trumpet wailing like a lost child. Then the title appears: DEUX HOMMES DANS MANHATTAN. Hey, what they hey? A credit reading SCENARIO ADAPTATION ET DIALOGUES? What gives? 

Well, it was inevitable that the country that coined the phrase film noir would give it a go. And the set-up is actually a good one, updated for the geopolitical age. Moreau and Delmas, respectively a French reporter and photographer both stationed in New York, prowl the city one night investigating the disappearance of France's delegate to the United Nations. They track down the married man's known girlfriends but gain little useful information. The French friends are ready to give up until they learn of the attempted suicide of one of the delegate's sidepieces -- an event that takes their investigation to another, unexpected level. And, say, what's the deal with the car that's been tailing them all night?

All the elements are there for a classic noir. The problem with Deux Hommes dans Manhattan lies with writer/director Jean-Pierre Melville (who also plays Moreau). In his attempt to emulate an American movie genre, Melville exaggerates noir style to the point of laughability. Reporters wearing sunglasses in the office. Slutty women spouting "tough" dialogue that's actually inane. An obnoxious trumpet blast every time the mystery car behind them turns on its headlights. It's like a Cordon Bleu-trained chef using all his culinary knowledge to replicate your grandma's simple coffee cake by tripling the amount of ingredients and throwing in some others because they seem right.

Moreau and his costar Pierre Grasset do their best to emulate American anti-heroes, right down to the trench coat, fedora, and world-weary conversations. The French actresses are fine, but their American counterparts -- mon Dieu! Melville must have cast most of them for no other reason other than they worked cheap. It's always nice to see '50s New York in movies, but Deux Hommes dans Manhattan doesn't do it any favors. 

BONUS POINTS: Several location shots are plugged both visually and through dialogue in what appears to be product placement. The Capitol Records recording studio on East 23rd, the Pike Slip Inn, the Oven and Grill Diner, the Ridgewood Rathskeller... all now vanished but preserved in the movie. Well, at least it was good for something.

                                                             ******************

YOUTUBE, YOU LISTEN

No stereo console was complete without water
stains from orange soda bottles.

 I've been assuming lo these many posts that my regular readers are older than
50. And like most people of our age range, there's the occasional moaning and groaning about how Top 40 radio isn't as good as it used to be. Which is translated as I don't like today's music. That's why I still listen to... 

You can complete the sentence. I'm sure for most of us it's stuff circa 1960-1990. Maybe not even that late.

Well, I'm here to tell you there's plenty of good stuff out there. It's just not getting airplay, except perhaps on college stations and whatever few independent outlets remaining on FM. But mainly, it can be found on YouTube and, in my case, my daughter's collection of non-Top 40 music. 

I have thousands of hours of music on my laptop, and plenty of it is from the last few years. I threw together about 90 minutes' worth of contemporary stuff from my own collection and created a YouTube playlist. Most of it is from new artists you probably haven't heard of, while some is by musicians from "our days" still putting out good stuff for new audiences.  Some of it has a 60s-70s vibe, which is a thing with young indie musicians who idolize Brian Wilson, Burt Bachrach, '60s psychedelia, and what used to be called soul music. All of it is interesting, sophisticated and catchy.

Here's the link: (141) OLDFISHEYE - YouTube. Swing by and hit "Play All".  If there's someone you really like, explore their other stuff. It may renew your faith in contemporary music.

Remember: you're not supposed to like Top 40. Your parents sure didn't when you were listening to Led Zeppelin. Although I never liked them either. 

And if you see something called "Recommended Videos" at the end of my list, I didn't recommend them. It's the algorithm on the loose once again.

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PS: I accidentally deleted my last post about the current lack of background work. If you didn't read it, you didn't miss much.

AGAINST THE OZ

Somewhere over Las Vegas...

Now that the Colbert cancellation is starting to fade from the front page, it's time for something else to get people riled up. So desperate are Americans to see how far their blood pressure can rise before it kills them, they have to turn to an 86 year-old movie most haven't seen since their ages were in the single digits: The Wizard of Oz. 

Oddly, it doesn't have anything to do with "troubling" moments like a teenager almost getting "unalived" in a tornado before being groomed by three older men; little people being the butt of jokes; or a person of color (green) once again being the villain. In fact, all these and more will be bigger and better(?) than ever, now that Oz will be shown at the Las Vegas Sphere. Oh, it'll be shorter, too, by roughly 27 minutes. But is anybody's attention span what it used to be?

According to CNBC, "Sphere Entertainment worked with engineers on using artificial intelligence-powered “outpainting” to expand the film’s original frames to fit the Las Vegas venue, which opened in September 2023. The goal, according to the company, is to make viewers feel like they were in the studio when the legendary movie — released in 1939 and starring Judy Garland — was made."

Now phonier looking than ever!

To clarify a couple of things, "outpainting" seems to be a new made-up word for
computer generated imagery, while there's no way you'll feel like you were in the studio because much of the outpainted imagery wasn't there. Nor was the confetti blowing in your face during the tornado scenes or the 167,000 speakers blasting your ears, aromas snaking their way up your nostrils, or something called "haptic seats" (which sounds cooler than "shaky").

Further separating it from its original version is that the average ticket price in 1939 was two bits. Ducats for the souped-up, 16K Oz range from $138 to $347 -- if you were lucky enough to score them on the Sphere site. Otherwise, those secondary market prices are currently close to $700 each. Feel like taking the wife and kiddies? Better get lucky at the craps table first! 

Don't give Trump any ideas.

At 366 feet tall and 516 feet wide, the Sphere makes Imax look like the portable
Panasonic TV you had in your dorm room. The images that flash on its outer portion are literally eye-popping, not to mention a dangerous distraction to drivers within five miles of downtown Vegas. 

Movie lovers and professional complainers are up in arms over the ticket prices, 4D effects and Sphere's decision to trim almost a half hour from the Oz running time (now it's 75 minutes, the better to squeeze in more showings). And if this were the only version that would ever exist until the end of time, I'd be ticked-off, too.

But what people don't seem to remember is that the complete Wizard of Oz in its original Academy Ratio (1.37:1) exists everywhere Blu rays are sold. They might even be in these people's very own collection. The missing footage will probably be trims -- 30 seconds here, a minute there -- that only the most Ozsessive fan would notice. 

Now this is an atrocity.

One more thing these folks forget: they don't have to see the damn thing! It's like bitching about a dopey theme-park attraction based on their favorite movie -- a ride they say "rapes my childhood!" -- that they won't go near anyway. 

Sam Adams in Slate goes so far as to call it "an atrocity" (a word usually mentioned in conjunction with genocide and the like). By the end of the piece, he seems to be one step away from calling it a deliberate distraction from the Epstein files.

You don't want to see the bigger-than-ever Wizard of Oz for aesthetic reasons? Fine. You don't like Vegas? I don't blame you. You don't want to take out a loan for a 75 minute movie? Join the club. Show your support for the real deal by buying the 4K Ultra HD/Blu ray combo, now going for only $19.03 on Amazon. Now find something important to complain about.

By the way, where are the Epstein files?

                                                                      **********

THE EARLY SHOW, PT. 55

 Today's menu consists of two pre-codes, a B-movie starring a blog favorite, and a short best watched with the sound muted. Time to binge!

AFRAID TO TALK (1932): Just when you think pre-codes couldn't get more cynical, up pops Afraid to Talk. Bellboy Eddie Martin witnesses the murder of gangster Jake Stransky by fellow criminal Jig Skelli. What appears to be open and shut case becomes dead and buried, since Skelli has proof that the city's mayor, police commissioner, judges and the D.A.'s office were on Stranksy's payroll. Ergo, the bellboy has to take the fall. After hours of mental and physical torture, Eddie signs a confession. The Mayor and Judge, happy to collect kickbacks as long as mobsters are killing each other, want no part of this, and risk their own careers in order to free Martin. District Attorney John Wade, on the other hand, decides to arrange Martin's jailhouse murder to make it look like suicide. Your tax dollars at work!

Even for a misanthrope like me, Afraid to Talk was a disquieting 75 minutes. Not even the previously-discussed Vice Squad presents lawmakers in such a tawdry light. So much so that where it takes place is never made clear, since references are made to cities like Chicago, Detroit, and New York. (Pay no attention to Times Square's electric headline tickertape that's often seen.) Too, constant reference is made to protecting "the party" at all costs -- just don't ask which party. No wonder some Depression-hit jobless characters hope for a red revolution. The latter is due to Afraid to Talk's writer, Albert Maltz, being a real-life member of the Communist party. And we all know that lawmakers in Stalin's Russia were the most integrous of people.

Forget about the leads playing the bellboy and his bride; it's the bad guys (some pretending to be good) who own Afraid to Talk. Master character actor Edward Arnold, who could play nice guys when he wanted to, chews up the joint as Jig Skelli, the jolly gangster who enjoys bantering with the D.A. as much as he does killing off rivals. And speaking of the D.A., the underrated Louis Calhern is oilier than a tin of mackerel as John Wade, who marks the innocent Eddie Martin for death with the ease of ordering one of the countless cigars smoked here. And it won't be the last time you'll find yourself saying, "Oh my God!" either.

Yup, Afraid to Talk swings for the disreputable fences time after time. The only problems are its current so-so condition (yet another obscure Paramount oldie in need of a good scrubbing), and that it lacks the more downbeat alternate ending allegedly filmed for its European release. Even in its current state, though, Afraid to Talk puts to lie any talk about the "innocent days" of movies and how the studios were afraid to confront audiences with the hard truth about what their government leaders were (and still are) capable of. 

BONUS POINT: The corrupt cops giving poor Eddie the third-degree. Not that they're doing it, but how it's photographed in one take, the camera slowly tracking closer as the harsh overhead light swings lazily back and forth. We're spared seeing the subsequent torture, having to be content with hearing Eddie's agonized off-camera screams.

EAST OF FITH AVENUE (1933):  Sure, that "Grand Hotel of a New York boarding house" hype on the East of Fifth Avenue one-sheet is accurate. But it also feels like Columbia's answer to Sam Goldwyn's Street Scene, right down to the Gershwinesque opening theme. Both movies focus on the denizens of lower-middle class New York neighborhoods in a compressed timeline. Characters have money and family problems. But while Street Scene was a big budget adaptation of an acclaimed Broadway drama, East of Fifth Avenue is... well, like I said, a Columbia picture. 

No need to give the names of most of the characters or the actors. And while there are a lot of them -- the layabout poet, the elderly couple, the snake oil salesman among others -- two carry much of the movie. Kitty (Dorothy Tree) eagerly awaits the return of Vic (Wallace Ford), the fast-talking gambler who unknowingly knocked her up. And Vic does indeed show up -- with his wife Edna, a cracked Southern belle. It doesn't take long for Edna to get tired of the boarding house life, leading Vic to desperately find a thousand bucks to bet on a surefire 10-1 nag at the track. Kitty, still in love with him, borrows from the elderly couple, which sets into motion the climactic events that affect most of the boarders in different, shocking ways.

While most of the characters are more like caricatures, Dorothy Tree brings Kitty to life in East of Fifth Avenue's most believable performance, holding the story together during the goofy first half before it gets increasingly dramatic. Familiar utility actor Wallace Ford gives his typical wiseguy flair, only less grating than usual. Even better, he often gives hints of his better dramatic style that would dominate his future supporting roles. I came close to turning off East of Fifth Avenue (118 East 56th, to be exact) in the first half hour but was glad to stick with it, as it didn't necessarily play out as expected, especially with the elderly couple. It might not be a grand hotel but it's pretty good.

BONUS POINTS: By the end of the movie, you will have learned a dozen or so pre-code ways to say a woman is pregnant without really saying it. Best example: when Kitty is kicked out of a chorus line, one of the dancers sneers, "Say, I thought you had a lot of experience." To which Kitty replies, "Yeah, too much!"

THE SIX DAY GRIND (1935): Some not-so-good pictures are worth seeing just once
because they're short. Others, because they have historical significance. Still others because they're proof that what was once considered witty has aged like camembert sitting on the windowsill for a year. 

The Six Day Grind is all three. It's a one-reeler; it features genuine newsreel footage of the six-day bicycle race held in Madison Square Garden in 1935, an event at once fascinating and boring beyond human standards; and it stars the married comedy team of Goodman and Jane Ace, known on their radio sitcom as the Easy Aces. The couple were similar to Burns & Allen, with the long-suffering straightman playing off his scatterbrained wife. But while George Burns clearly adored Gracie and her "illogical logic", Goodman seems to have married the incredibly stupid Jane just to have someone to insult on a regular basis.

The "Ace High" shorts made for the Van Buren Studios in New York anticipate Science Fiction Theater 2000. In all of them, The Aces are at a movie theater, where Jane reads the opening credits in her Southern drawl, before commenting about the newsreel onscreen. Goodman needs to correct her throughout, eventually using his catchphrase, "Isn't that awful?" Well yes, it is, but not in the way he's implying. If these two were sitting near you in a real movie theater, you'd demand the usher throw them out on their unfunny butts. Comedians and writers alike held Goodman Ace in high regard back in the day, so either he was funnier writing for other people, or his style doesn't hold up.

But you know what? The bicycle race footage is fun to watch for 10 minutes. These guys zip around track at a lot of miles per hour, with the teams trading off riders in order to sleep and eat. Watch The Six Day Grind with a friend, turn off the volume, and make your own wisecracks. It'll be funnier than what the Easy Aces have to say. 

BONUS POINTS: During a break, biking champ Alfred LeTourneau sleeps in an "oxygen therapy service tent," allowing Jane to complain, "Oh, why can't he breathe the same air as the rest of us?" It's the closest thing to a funny remark she makes here. 

BETRAYAL FROM THE EAST (1945): Lee Tracy was nearing the end of his movie career and spending more time on stage when he made this patriotic drama based on the non-fiction book of the same name. In pre-Pearl Harbor Los Angeles, carnival barker Eddie Carter is approached by his old army buddy Kato -- you can guess his ancestry -- for information regarding U.S. military plans on the Panama Canal. When Carter approaches U.S. Naval Intelligence with his suspicions that Kato is up to no good, he eagerly accepts Uncle Sam's request to go undercover in the Japanese spy ring operating on the West Coast. Sure, it's dangerous, but's more exciting than bringing customers inside a tent at two bits per rube.

Hollywood was churning out anti-Japanese movies like ramen noodles during the War, usually making the "Japs" out to be barely one step above apes. Betrayal From the East goes in a slightly different direction. The spies are -- or at least pretend to be --respectful and well-mannered. And unlike the usual "ah so" characters of the time, Carter's friend Kato speaks perfect English without a trace of an accent. And while you might not recognize the names of the "enemy" character actors -- Richard Loo, Philip Ahn, Victor Sen Yung, Abner Bieberman (who wasn't even Japanese but could pass in a pinch) -- they fall into the "oh, that guy" category. Regis Toomey's eight-minute role as an American spy might disappoint his fans, but how many of them are there, anyway?

It wouldn't be a '40s spy drama without a little romance, so Eddie falls hard for fellow undercover agent Peggy Harrison -- who, as played Nancy Kelly, is about a quarter-century his junior. Her apparent death -- and later reappearance hanging out with German spies -- gives the movie an unexpected Vertigo-ish twist. (Her character's real death is genuinely unsettling.) 

No longer the motormouth from his pre-code days, Lee Tracy is now a little slower and paunchier. Still, his B-pictures like Betrayal From the East offer a welcoming presence for fans like me who wonder when he's going to get the look-who-we-discovered treatment by johnny-come-latelys like the New York Times and the Film Forum.

BONUS POINTS: Betrayal From the East is introduced by Drew Pearson, the muckraking political journalist whose newspaper column, "Washington Merry-Go-Round", was the talk of Washington. Over a decade earlier, his book of the same name was the basis of a great movie starring Lee Tracy. 

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