Hit Parade of 1941 (1940)

I’ve seen countless Hollywood musicals, and any more it’s rare that I discover a film that I enjoy, or have even the slightest desire to write about. Such is the case, however, with the elusive Hit Parade of 1941. There have been numerous films to appear under the Hit Parade banner, and they have little in common with each other. The most well-known is the 1943 entry starring Susan Hayward — it’s available via Netflix streaming and is well worth a look — and just like the Hit Parade of 1941 it’s a double Academy Award nominee, in both the Song and Score categories.

Of course all of these films — just like the Broadway Melody series — are little more than cinematic fluff, but that rather goes without saying. Hit Parade of 1941 is nevertheless a charming and entertaining film that, excuse the horrible pun, hits all the right notes. It features radio star Kenny Baker, who I first encountered in the odd 1937 film Mr. Dodd Takes the Air. If you know Baker at all, it’s likely from his supporting role in the Garland’s The Harvey Girls. He had boyish good looks and a beautifully clear voice. The studios tended to use him in unsophisticated, innocent, aw-shucks parts, and Hit Parade is no different.

Baker plays David Farraday, who helps his zany uncle (Hugh Herbert) run a Connecticut trading post (or is it a swap shop? or maybe a flea market?) that advertises on WPX, a Brooklyn radio station. The station is floundering, so when the elder Farraday threatens to pull his sponsorship the station manager makes the trip to the suburbs hoping to convince him to hang on a little while longer. Yet somehow, Farraday pulls an impressive swap of his own, and trades the swap meet for the radio station! Both Farraday men easily transition to life as radio station owners, and quickly set their sights on the newly expanding world of television. (A 1940 film that embraces television? How Hollywood’s attitudes would change in the coming decade!) Longtime advertiser Mrs. Potter (character actress par excellence Mary Boland) is happy to sign on in support of WPX’s new television hour, but only if it features her niece Annabelle (Ann Miller). The problem is that, in spite of thousands of dollars in singing lessons, Annabelle can’t carry a tune. David has an idea: he asks singer and wannabe girlfriend Pat (Frances Langford) to dub Annabelle from a nearby sound booth. It works for a while, with predictable movie musical results. But fortunately for us all, Annabelle doesn’t want to sing anyway — we know what she wants to do…

Hit Parade of 1941 has what you are looking for: the comedy bits are actually funny, and the musical numbers are memorable. Baker and Langford make a good couple: solid chemistry and superb voices. Langford wasn’t exactly a minor star, but given her looks and talent it is somewhat surprising she wasn’t bigger. Although she only made two dozen or so films, mostly light musicals similar to this one, the “Sweetheart of the Fighting Fronts” was a staple of Bob Hope’s USO tours, an on the radio. In addition to Baker and Langford, Hit Parade gives us two more couples: Patsy Kelly and Phil Silvers, and Mary Boland pairs with Hugh Herbert. Top to bottom, it all works. One of the most entertaining musical acts in the film is, oddly enough, “Borrah Minevitch and His Harmonica Rascals.” I know, I know, but trust me. If you can’t manage to locate this film, you can catch them in two pictures that are a little easier to find: 1942’s Always in My Heart with Kay Francis and Walter Huston, or in the 1936 Sonja Henie movie, One in a Million. These guys are worth it, fulfilling the same role as the Nicholas Brothers in numerous Fox pictures; they don’t contribute much to the story, but they punctuate it with something rather special.

The stars themselves do quite well too, but one musical sequence is truly spectacular. It finds Langford behind the microphone at a Manhattan nightclub, belting out “Swing Low, Sweet Rhythm,” while Ann Miller takes to the dance floor in an skimpy black get-up cadged from the cigarette girl. It’s a show-stopping treat of a number, offering the chance to see two beautiful young women doing what they do best. Langford is in great form, a full swing orchestra behind her — while Miller spins, sparkles, and taps her way across the floor — knowing no one in the world save Eleanor Powell could match her. It’s one of those moments that remind us why we like these films; it brims over with that special magic of the best forties musicals. You’ll stop what you are doing and pay close attention, hoping it will go on forever. But everything about these films, just like the months and years of that all-important decade — and the flickering images themselves — is fleeting. 

Hit Parade of 1941 (1940)
Directed by John Auer
Starring Kenny Baker, Frances Langford, Ann Miller, Patsy Kelly, and Phil Silvers.
Released by Republic Pictures
Running time 88 minutes.
Availability: Rare
Grade: A-

The Organizer (1963)

Prolific filmmaker Mario Monicelli’s 1963 masterpiece I Compagni, or The Organizer tells the story of textile mill workers in late-nineteenth century Torino who find the strength to protest working conditions thanks to the intervention of an itinerant, mild-mannered (and of course, bespectacled) intellectual vividly realized by Marcello Mastroianni. It’s a thoughtful and beautiful movie, as insightful as you might expect and funnier than the subject matter would suggest. Who’s to say whether or not The Organizer has been forgotten — though it is undeniably rare: only 420 IMDb votes, and not one professional review (though IMDb does link to a superior long essay on the film by the wonderful Marilyn Ferdinand, here). It’s a shame, this is a film certain to please a broad constituency, whether fans of the principals, the Oscars (Best Original Screenplay nominee, 1965), foreign fare, labor movies, or merely great cinematography. It’s a serious film about a serious subject, and like real life itself, it moves smoothly (or awkwardly — depending on your point of view) from tragedy to comedy, brimming with the sort of humanity and struggle that transcends language. This is one of Mastroianni’s most subtle performances, and possibly his best. He punctuates his meekness and restraint with moments of pure charisma and wild abandon, and creates something very memorable.

One note: the poster depicted here is a stinker — Matroianni sports a beard and glasses throughout, and The Organizer is hardly a sexual film, as the poster suggests. 

I’m want to keep my thoughts here very brief, but I did find one sequence in particular to be emblematic of the character of the entire film, demonstrating the novel way in which The Organizer manages to heartbreaking, funny, and endearing all at the same time. Monicelli’s deft blending of irony, humor, and tragedy coalesce perfectly in this sequence, involving a Sicilian, Salvatore Mustafah, who informs the strike committee that he intends to cross the picket line. “What are you?” the committee members ask from their second-story balcony. “A desperate man,” he shouts up from the dirt piazza below. Owing to his recent arrival in Torino, Salvatore is unable to secure a line of credit at the company store and consequently must work. However he doesn’t want to be disrespectful to the strikers so he respectfully informs them of his intentions. Their response is to beat some sense into him, but when they arrive at the little man’s place and quite literally knock the “door” down, they are so appalled by his meager living conditions that they immediately relent and grant him permission to return to the mill. He does so, but the bosses rebuff him and try to toss him back out onto the street, even going so far as to strike him. The enraged little Sicilian then whips out his switchblade (the one filmdom has taught us all Sicilians have at the ready), but alas, it won’t open. In one of the movie’s funniest moments, Salvatore throws the knife to the floor and stomps on it until the catch finally disengages and the blade pops free. But by then, he’s standing alone and the guards are on their way. Monicelli makes the moment intentionally funny, and we laugh whole-heartedly — until moments later when we see Salvatore frog-marched out of the mill in handcuffs, bound for jail and robbed of what little dignity he had left, and we realize that the poorest of the poor always gets the short end of the stick, and that the man with the greatest need, who risks the most, often fares the worst — and that we are laughing at him. But in the end the film is full of such moments, and we understand that Monicelli is neither manipulating us nor is he being cruel. He’s merely reminding his audience that there are times in life where we have to find the humor in the bleakest of situations, lest we give into despair.

The Organizer is very hard to find, but it will reward those who know how to look. 

King of Jazz (1930)

Make way for Universal and little Carl’s 1930 musical revue, King of Jazz. The title refers to the jovial bandleader Paul Whiteman, though the film offers nothing in the way of the biography you might expect. Instead, it’s essentially just a filmed vaudeville show — though arguably (with an gigantic two million dollar budget) the best one you’ve ever seen. The show actually opens with a cartoon — by Walter Lantz of Woody Woodpecker fame no less, and the first such animation to be filmed in Technicolor. King of Jazz is historically significant for that reason alone, but it also features a surprisingly good sequence of numbers featuring the stars of the day, including a youthful Bing Crosby and the “Rhythm Boys.” The young crooner struts his stuff in four or five separate numbers, with the bouncy Happy Feet the best of the bunch. Personally, my favorite number is a clichéd dance where Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls spring to life and put on an acrobatic ballet, featuring a female dancer who is almost more contortionist than anything else. Nonetheless, there’s something for everyone here — even today’s young people: an elastic tap dancer who does the earliest moonwalk I’ve ever seen, and a row of chorus girls who put on a step show that might merit a double take from the students at Howard.

Whiteman, who for decades was a star of the first order, doesn’t overexert himself. He pops in and out, most often for the sake of comic relief, though he gets the most out of the movie’s second biggest number: an homage to George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, resplendent in the film’s finest production values (and that’s saying something). King of Jazz is a visual delight, with a dog and pony show of cutting edge art direction and set design. It’s interesting that such a film would come from Carl Laemmle and Universal rather than MGM, but the “major minor” was flush from their success with Best Picture Winner All Quiet on the Western Front and Laemmle never seemed to tire of attempting make-or-break forays into A level production. There are colossal Berkeley-esque set pieces and props, along with numerous chorus lines, lavish costumes, and offbeat camera angles — you’ll even find ample use of stop-motion animation. Designer Herman Rosse won the third annual Academy Award for Art Direction for his astonishing work on the film.

The meat of the thing is really split between the Gershwin number and the finale, which is another homage of sorts, this time to all of the immigrant musical styles that have come together to for the “American Musical Melting Pot” that everyone knows as “Jazz.” Unfortunately, the contribution of black Americans is sadly left out of the stew for the sake of safer fare such as Irish, Spanish, and Russian influences. This omission is King of Jazz’s biggest disappointment. In a film that happily avoids the racial stereotyping so often found in similar movies from the time — no minstrel numbers or blackface — it’s unfortunate that the film’s only African influence is a lone rhythmic dance number that open the Gershwin sequence. Nonetheless, what’s left over is entertaining, funny, occasionally risqué, and in glorious 1930 Technicolor.

King of Jazz (1930)

Directed by John Murray Anderson

Starring Paul Whiteman, Bing Crosby, and other performers

Released by Universal Pictures

Running time: 98 minutes

Janie (1944)

Janie is a charming wartime domestic comedy released by Warner Bros. at the height of the post-Normandy push in the autumn of 1944. After a successful run on Broadway, Jack Warner secured the project and assigned Michael Curtiz to direct newcomer Joyce Reynolds in the title role. Essentially an ensemble piece, it boasts a strong Hollywood cast (not a single Broadway holdover) featuring Robert Hutton, Edward Arnold, Ann Harding, Alan Hale, and Hattie McDaniel in key roles. Judging by the poster, the studio clearly marketed the film on the strength of the stage production, and as an effort to make a star out of the nineteen year-old Reynolds.

Here’s it is in a sentence or two: Janie Conway (Reynolds) is a small town girl whose hormones kick into overdrive when the army moves into her hometown of Hortonville, much to the consternation of her overbearing father (Arnold), who runs the local newspaper. Pretty soon Janie is juggling a newfound army beau (Hutton) and her high school sweetheart, both of whom want to knock the other’s block off. Everything wraps up Risky Business style, when the Janie and her girlfriends throw a big party for all the under-twenties from the army base at the Conway house.

In spite of the fact that this is a low-budget film targeted at teens, it has a great script and a particularly strong narrative construction, with numerous subplots that all wrap up nicely at the end. It embraces teen culture during, the generation gap, frustration with the bureaucracy of the war years, young love, old love, the marriage boom, self-sacrifice, and so forth — but manages to handle all of its subject matter with a good sense of humor. Curtiz’s direction is highly accomplished: he wrestles good performances from his young cast members, and allows the veterans to do their thing; the whole thing moves at breakneck speed, but the pacing of the comedic moments is perfectly handled and the film never loses its light touch — especially important in 1944.

With that in mind, it’s also important to note that while Janie has its sentimental, patriotic moments, it never feels heavy-handed or too much like rah-rah propaganda. Instead, the movie takes a more subtle approach, presenting a picture of the kind of idealized American family and Rockwellian small town life that the country’s young soldiers were supposed to be fighting for — whether it existed only on a Hollywood sound stage or not. It goes without saying that the characters are unrealistic — all the girls are pure as the driven snow, while the boys from the base couldn’t be more well mannered. Most of this will be irrelevant to viewers looking for a pleasantly diverting comedy film, which Janie certainly is — even more so than other, better known films. This thing qualifies as a forgotten gem.

Reynolds looks so much like Deanna Durbin that they could be sisters, and the whole movie has the feeling of a Durbin project. There’s even a musical number that happens during the party sequence, when all of the young people sing an impromptu rendition of Jules Styne and Sammy Cahn’s Keep Your Powder Dry (one year later the title of a Lana Turner picture). It’s an extended sequence that really swings; but while for me it was a highlight, the way in which everyone in the party takes a turn at the lyrics might damage the film’s sense of continuity for some viewers. And while Janie was a long-sought-after viewing for me (this is the only Academy Award nominee in the film editing category that I hadn’t seen), other who happen upon the movie are almost certain to enjoy it. It was successful enough that WB produced a 1946 sequel with Joan Leslie in the Reynolds part. Reynolds herself would only make three more films after Janie, two of them opposite Hutton, and would leave the business in 1950.  

Janie (1944)

Directed by Michael Curtiz

Starring Joyce Reynolds, Robert Hutton, Edward Arnold, and Ann Harding

Running time: 102 minutes

Released by Warner Bros. 

Man of a Thousand Faces (1957)

A note about the poster: Included above are a pair of images that provide a great deal of insight into how the studios developed posters for their films. These are both studio publicity stills shot specifically for this film, passed along to the art department for use in the poster.

James Cagney is Oscar-worthy as Lon Chaney in 1957’s glossy Man of a Thousand Faces. And for that matter, so is Dorothy Malone — so good here that she made me want to throw a brick through my television. More on that shortly.

Cagney is one of the few performers who, no matter how much praise he receives, never gets his full due. Why? No one seems to have the guts to say he was the best that ever stood in front of a camera. As hard as it is to make such a claim of any performer, especially a crazy little Irishman like Cagney, his memory begs one to try. (For that matter, so does Lon Chaney’s — but that great actor, who unfortunately falls on the wrong side of the line in my shallow mind that divides the silents and the talkies, will have to forgive me for favoring Cagney.) It’s too easy to dismiss an actor like Cagney as a “movie star” instead of an actor — people do it to Mitchum all the time. There’s no label, no matter how lofty, that can sum up Cagney’s position in movie history. He could do it all: action, drama, romance, comedy — any damn thing, even Shakespeare. He came up in Hollywood as a scene-stealer; his charisma was undeniable. And as everyone knows, he could even sing and dance, winning the 1941 Academy Award for Yankee Doodle Dandy.

His contemporaries on the Warner’s lot in the early days were Paul Muni and Edward G. Robinson, with Bogart coming on toward the end of the thirties. Yet Cagney was able to separate himself from his peers through his versatility. Muni got in his own way too often, though he had a run through the thirties as the star of big budget biopics that is practically unmatchable. Bogart’s screen presence was on par with Cagney’s, though no one would argue that his range was as broad. And then there’s Robinson: the professional, the actor’s actor. Even he admired Cagney a great deal, and lived out his life in perpetual amazement that the little Irish gentile had gotten his start in Yiddish theater. No matter where you’d place Cagney in the grand scheme of things, his depth and range are undeniable.

I like this film, it has echoes of art mirroring life — that is, if we accept the truth of Chaney’s life as presented on screen — always risky. It was fitting to cast Cagney as the silent star. Both men were versatile as hell, admittedly in very different ways, but it comes through loud and clear in his performance that Cagney, whose career was winding down in 1957, deeply understood the man whose life he was trying to interpret for the ages. The most superficial reason to watch this is to see Cagney in all of Chaney’s famous get-ups: particularly Quasimodo and the Phantom of the Opera. As far as the movie-in-a-movie stuff goes one scene stands out: as early on Cagney is called upon to do a scene as a crippled man who is miraculously healed by a traveling preacher. He throws away his crutches and slowly, agonizingly, unfolds and articulates his limbs — transforming himself from a misshapen grotesque to a normal man in excruciating slow motion. It’s impressive in two ways: not only does Cagney have to mange the physical torture of the amazing slow motion contortions of his frame, he also has to make it look like it did when Chaney did it. The scene is riveting and unforgettable.

The industry stuff aside, this is a film that at its heart is really about fathers and sons and what it means to be different. Chaney’s parents were deaf, and sign language was the primary form of communication in his boyhood home. As the film opens, we discover Chaney and his young wife Cleva (Dorothy Malone, a film noir honey mostly remembered for the long-lived TV version of Peyton Place.) trying to make a go of it in Vaudeville. The problem in their marriage, which surfaces after Cleva divulges that she’s pregnant and consequently thinks the time has come to meet Lon’s family, is that Chaney never told his young wife about his parent’s deafness. To put it lightly, Cleva does not respond well when she finally meets the parents — she flees to her room and then confesses to Chaney that she no longer wants to have her baby, for fear it will be a “freak” like her in-laws. Malone is incredible here; she really lays it all out. As a parent of small children, I found her to be so despicable and infuriating that I had to turn the film off for a little while to get a breather — I recognized that I needed a break when I caught myself screaming at the television.

Eventually Cleva delivers their son, who hears perfectly well, but by then the marriage is skidding. Cleva eventually becomes unhinged (in one particularly eye-opening scene!) and the marriage fails. Without giving too much away, the majority of the story is concerned with Chaney’s devotion to rearing his son; and how his Hollywood career develops as a result of his efforts to simply keep food on the table. (The son, Creighton, of course goes on to be known as Lon Chaney Junior, the the movie doesn’t tell that tale.) The whole thing goes easy on the sugar, and subsequently comes across nicely. There’s a lot to like here — I was engrossed from start to finish, bet you would be too.

Man of a Thousand Faces (1957)
Directed by Joe Pevney
Starring James Cagney, Dorothy Malone, Jane Greer, and Jim Backus.
Released by Universal International
Running time: 122 minutes
Availability: Widely on DVD

When Worlds Collide (1951)

Run for your lives! Oh wait, that won't work. In the 1951 sci-fi classic When Worlds Collide, a vicious one-two punch in the form of Bellus and Zyra, a rogue star and orbiting planet are hurtling through space directly for the planet earth. Our hero, research scientist Dr. Hendron (Larry Keating) confirms the inevitability of the collision with a year to spare, but is mocked by the newly formed United Nations General Assembly and tossed out on his ear. By the time the rest of the world finally comes to grips with the truth of the situation, it's too late to do anything about it — too late, that is, for everyone except Dr. Hendron and his circle, who have endeavored to build a futuristic Noah's Ark in the form of a gigantic sleek silver rocket. Their plan is to launch at just the last second, and hopefully land and begin civilization anew on Zyra, the small, earth-like (hopefully) planet. A scant forty-four people can be saved, and much of the film's drama concerns preparation for the cataclysm and the selection of the lucky few.

Despite a short running time, there's plenty to hold our attention (it's actually too bad this couldn't have gone on for another twenty minutes or so — there are plenty of threads that could have been woven into a more detailed fabric.) There's a love triangle involving 50s honey Barbara Rush, the ship's M.D., and her reluctant pilot; as well as a great deal of moral and ethical tension generated by the wheelchair-bound gajillionaire who's paying for the whole thing — in exchange for one of the coveted seats.

One of the cleverest plot twists has Zyra passing close enough to the Earth to disrupt the tides and flood all coastal cities nineteen days in advance of the fiery collision with Bellus. It adds a moment of real suspense and worthwhile special effects to the middle of the film, and as an added bonus it solves the problem of pissed-off, gun-toting mob of rejects making a run on the rocket during the eleventh hour — the launch site is on a mountain top, and Zyra has flooded all low-lying territories. The effects are pretty darn good, all the more so because this was shot in very vivid technicolor — good enough to nab the effects Academy Award (not to mention a color cinematography nomination). Most of the tricks are done with miniatures, but they are impressive to say the least and will have you wondering if it isn't the real thing in a few of the cuts. There's an interesting flood sequence that anticipates the likewise Oscar-winning effects in The Rains of Ranchipur. There might be a few seconds of stock footage here and there, but who cares? This is great stuff.

Unfortunately this is 1950s America — no black folks allowed. Asians? Sorry. The script does vaguely reference similar rockets being built in other countries, but the notion contradicts the earlier idea that the initially sceptical would be unable to complete a ship in time. The new civilization on Zyra will be young, white, and good looking — and with cute puppies. The film makes a meager overture to civil unrest amongst the hundred of rocket-builders who don't get a space on the flight, but it takes a nod and a wink on the part of viewers to think the rocket would have ever gotten off the ground. Yet it does, and miraculously manages to set down on the surface of Zyra. The hatch opens to "the sweetest breath" one traveler ever took, and a cartoonish world of green fields, pink trees, snow, and a few rather Egyptian looking pyramids. It's a strange teaser for the film to end this way — if this was a contemporary picture we'd all shout, "Sequel!" The Zyran landscape obviously contains buildings, but we are left to wonder whether or not they contain living beings, friendly or otherwise. The idea of competing rocket projects, particularly those from other countries and other governments, makes the idea of a sequel very intriguing. Apparently George Pal wanted to do a follow-up along those lines, but it just never panned out. Nevertheless, this is a fun fifties sci-fi gem, with enough polish to please all viewers. Plus, it sports one honey of a poster.

When Worlds Collide (1951)

Directed by Rudolph Maté

Starring Barbara Rush, Richard Derr, Peter Hansen, Larry Keating, and John Hoyt

Released by Paramount Pictures

Running time: 82 minutes
Availability: Widely on DVD.

It Happens Every Spring (1949)

As a college professor I get really nervous whenever I watch a Hollywood film about people who do what I do for a living. Academics are usually portrayed in the movies as myopic bookworms or comic buffoons. Not the case with 20th Century Fox's It Happens Every Spring, which finds chemistry teacher Ray Milland taking a leave of absence to spend a season on the pitchers’ mound for St. Louis. Milland’s Vernon Simpson becomes screwball hero “King” Kelly after accidentally discovering a chemical solution that makes baseballs impervious to wood. Once Milland cleverly figures a way to get his solution onto game balls he becomes the best pitcher in the majors, and miraculously leads St. Louis to the World Series — all while trying to keep his identity hidden from his academic colleagues and fiance.

It Happens Every Spring received a well-deserved Oscar nomination in the Motion Picture Story category, though the film is universally strong. Good dialogue, fine performances, and a story that manages to avoid all the clichés — or at least put a witty spin on them. Jean Peters is fine as the fiancé and Ed Begley is a perfectly-cast team owner — but Paul Douglas positively steals the show as the salty veteran catcher who mentors Milland through the big time. It's easy to see why he would be cast two years later in Angels in the Outfield. The comedy works as well now as it did then and this hasn’t aged a bit.

My only qualm is that the film fails to address the fact that Milland’s discovery makes him a cheater. Cheating has a long and extraordinarily well-documented tradition in the American Pastime, but It Happens Every Spring takes the notion of a spitball a bit far. That Milland runs out of formula by the time he’s called to perform in the penultimate game would likely make little difference to the teams who would have been in the series otherwise. Nevertheless this is a warm, yet inexplicably forgotten, entry in the grand tradition of baseball pictures.

It Happens Every Spring (1949)

Grade: A-

Directed by Lloyd Bacon
Starring Ray Milland, Jean Peters, Paul Douglas and Ed Begley.
Released by 20th Century Fox
Running time: 87 minutes.
Availability: VHS - Fox Movie Channel

Two for the Seesaw (1962)

If ever a poster didn’t do its film justice, this is it. The darn thing is too heavily steeped in what we (I’m a graphic design professor) have a tendency to call 101-Dalmatians-style to suggest the content of the Robert Wise’s Two for the Seesaw, which while romantic, is too tinged with melancholy and loneliness to be captured in this light-and-bright style.

Robert Mitchum stars as an attorney from Omaha who flees his failing marriage for the streets of New York, where he chances upon an unusual romance with Bohemian dreamer Shirley MacLaine. Seldom was Mitch’s signature world-weariness put to better use. He comes across beautifully here, channelling (ha!) all of the alienation and loneliness that one can feel amidst the canyons of Manhattan into his role. Though the films have nothing in common, Mitchum is almost as good here as he would be as Eddie Coyle more than a decade later. While Mitchum is thought of as a screen persona (or force of nature) more than as an actor, he holds his own quite well opposite the incredibly gifted MacLaine — she of the Best Actress Oscar and trio of Best Pictures. The clash of his repressive midwestern morality versus her Greenwich Village flightiness makes for an interesting contrast in the early scenes. The film is primarily concerned with how the pair manage to contrive a romance in spite of their differences.

Before I get any farther, I have to talk about Ted McCord’s black-and-white cinematography for Two for the Seesaw, which is among, I kid you not, the best in the history of Hollywood. I was able to watch this recently in high-definition on the MGM HD channel, and found the depiction of the streets of lower Manhattan to be nothing short of staggering. As a film noir enthusiast, this film ironically boast one or two of the most iconic representations of not only the urban landscape, but of a trench-coated protagonist among them. There is a scene in the middle of the film that finds a chain-smoking Mitchum waiting on a dark street outside MacLaine’s apartment following a bitter a quarrel. Mitchum is framed so beautifully against the deserted streets that my breath literally caught in my throat. At the conclusion of the picture, I rewound to the moment and enjoyed the frame for quite some time. McCord had a long-lasting career in Hollywood, but he isn't particularly well known to film buffs. His two biggest credits are East of Eden and The Sound of Music, as well as a three or four B-noirs. Wise however was a visually stylish director, especially when utilizing black-and-white, and the two worked together here to craft a sensuously, richly beautiful film — all the more surprising considering theatrical source material.

It has been said by some that Mitchum and MacLaine don’t have solid chemistry and the film is too long, but I disagree and would advise anyone to see this and judge for themselves. See this for the performances, for the beauty of the filming and of the city, and for the verve of Andre Previn’s great score. Just do me a favor and see it.

Although this does air on television from time to time, it isn't generally available otherwise, having never been widely released on DVD. It was recently made available from Amazon.com as a made-on-demand DVD, in much the same fashion as the Warner Archive DVD series.

Two for the Seesaw (1962)

Grade: A-

Director: Robert Wise
Starring: Robert Mitchum and Shirley MacLaine
Released by United Artists
Running time: 119 minutes
Availability: Amazon DVD on Demand.