A Yuletide Frolic

Christmas Day marks the three month anniversary of "Vitaphone Varieties," and I'd like to take a moment to especially thank all of it's readers and many supporters, who have been an incredible source of encouragement and inspiration for the author of these pages.

Equal thanks, however, must go to the films, performers, music and recordings explored in these pages --- all which have proven, beyond my wildest expectations, that they still possess the power to intrigue, enlighten and entertain. This, at a time when it seemed they'd been all but forgotten and that all there was to learn about them had already been written.

The early Talkies, while resigned to forever lurk in the deep shadows behind the era of the silent film and the product of the 1930's, are still very much with us --- a bit forlorn and tattered perhaps, but patiently waiting to spring to life once again, whenever given the chance to do so.

The ultimate credit, then, must go to you --- the readers of this work, for allowing these distant voices and lost chords of another day, time and place to be heard and appreciated again... and anew.

For this holiday offering, and until "Vitaphone Varieties" returns on New Year's Day of 2007, a diverse selection of what I hope will be audible cheer!


From 1932, a two-sided British 78rpm recording entitled "Gracie's Christmas Party," in which the beloved British entertainer, Gracie Fields, welcomes listeners into her home on Christmas Eve for an evocative bit of melody and mirth. Gracie's rendition of "Singing in the Bathtub," from "The Show of Shows" (WB-1929) is but one of many pleasures to be found in this lovely artifact of a more innocent time, lost beyond recall.

"Gracie's Christmas Party" (1932)








While the allure of child performer Davey Lee is difficult to appreciate today, there's no denying his place in film history as the first true child star of the sound era.

Between 1928 and 1930, Lee appeared with Al Jolson in "The Singing Fool" and "Say It With Songs," and as a supporting player in "Frozen River," "Skin Deep and "The Squealer," but in 1929 would be given his own starring vehicle "Sonny Boy." As could be expected, Lee's popularity was as tremendous as it was ultimately short lived. Before a momentarily charmed public turned its attention elsewhere, the boy was utilized for advertising campaigns, public service announcements, all manner of film cross promotional advertising, and was the feature character in a number of children's books and at least one commercial 78rpm recording.

For Christmas of 1929, the Brunswick two-sided recording of "Sonny Boy's Bear Story" was deemed an appropriate gift item for the kiddies, but as to how often they were allowed to listen to the recording on the family's phonograph is very much a matter of debate and tolerance, as you'll discover here.

"Sonny Boy's Bear Story" (1929) Davey Lee


Rather astonishing, but former child actor Davey Lee has his own small but charming web site --- surely the only such instance for any Vitaphone era performer, and well worth a visit. The link: "Sonny Boy Lives Here"




From 1931, an example of an idea that came either too late or too early in the game to be effective! Although Victor's first entry into the realm of the long-playing record was met with critical acclaim, it wasn't enough to lure the financially conscious public into the phonograph dealer's showroom. Had the device arrived four or even three years earlier, the outcome might have been rather different --- but as it was, 1931 wasn't the right time for entertainment luxury items. While the content of this demonstration disc (one side of which is offered here) is technically acceptable and certainly entertaining, it's interesting to note that most of the selections hearken back to an earlier day --- 1928, 1929 and 1930 specifically, and that despite the selling point being that this new process allows for greater "elbow room" for the performers, all that listeners heard here were, primarily, much abbreviated renditions of selections that could be heard, in full, on standard 78rpm recordings! A noble misfire.

With Frank Crumit as the Master of Ceremonies and performances by The Revelers, pianists Arden & Ohman and Nathaniel Shilkret leading the Victor Orchestra, here's a "right idea, wrong time" bit of phonograph history.

"Victor Artist's Party" (1931)

Nothing about the history of the early talking films is set in stone, and the fact that much of it seems to be badly in need of reevaluation is made apparent by the wealth of misinformation surrounding the 1928 film "My Man," which featured multi-talented entertainer Fannie Brice.

Usually cited as being largely silent with a few interpolated vocalizations (as in "The Jazz Singer") and that the film performed miserably outside of key cities that could boast audiences appropriately ethnic enough to patronize and appreciate the film, such wasn't the case.

Whether or not readers of a Lima, Ohio newspaper entered the puzzle contest to the right in order to win tickets to see "My Man" is unknown, but audiences turned out in droves nonetheless --- and not only in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, but in small cities and even smaller cinemas throughout the States, from late 1928 to mid 1929. Period reviews of the film are limited (many "reviews" are actually prefabricated publicity placements, but these become easy to detect in time!) but almost without exception, are tremendously positive. In fact, when a negative aspect concerning the film does appear, it's invariably in connection with the fact that the film does have brief periods of silence (a musical score with inter-titles --- perhaps 20% of the film's length) and that it wasn't designed as a full talkie.

Indeed, in more than one instance, the film was "held over" for the run of another full week --- a fact in direct contrast with the usually gloomy evaluations of the film one encounters in some books.

To be fair, the fact that precious little was thought to survive of the film for decades likely played a role in it's misrepresentation, but as bits and pieces of the film's Vitaphone disc soundtrack begin to emerge (only about 20% is still absent today) and fact gradually replaces opinion, the story changes.

Unfortunately, there's no getting around the fact that absolutely nothing is known to exist of the visual elements for "My Man," but hope springs eternal --- and films have a remarkable knack for turning up when least expected and from the most unexpected of sources too. I for one can't believe that a film so infused with the spirit and vibrancy of this most remarkable of all American entertainers would allow itself to remain lost forever --- if only for the fact that Brice herself would likely want nothing more than to set the record straight, once and for all.

Two excerpts from the surviving Vitaphone disc material for "My Man."

The first, a rendition of "I'd Rather Be Blue Over You," that begins simply at a piano as Brice puts her affection for an oblivious bloke (Guinn Williams) into song, and then opens up with full yet fleeting orchestra accompaniment.

"I'd Rather Be Blue..." (1928) Vitaphone Excerpt

The second, occurring on Fannie's wedding day, begins with an orchestral reprise of the above tune (one of the film's few silent sequences) and then explodes into an unusual and delightfully joyous rendition of the usually tear-laden song "My Man."

Orchestral Reprise & 'My Man' (1928) Vitaphone Excerpt

To close this holiday edition of "Vitaphone Varieties," which will return on New Year's Day of 2007, a moment of subdued romanticism from a film not usually thought of in either term --- "The Gold Diggers of Broadway" (WB-1929,) in which Nick Lucas provides the vocal incentive for William Bakewell to tuck a reluctant Helen Foster into bed and then, gentleman that he is, leave her to her dreams!

"Go to Bed" (1929) Nick Lucas

Until January 1st, "Happy Holidays!"

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"Don't Tell Your Right Name!"

"Don't tell your right name!" cries a helpful voice just as an after-hours entertainment establishment (shall we say) is unexpectedly raided in the opening moments of the 1927 Vitaphone short subject, "The Night Court."

Directed by Brian Foy, and filmed on an adjacent Warner Bros. sound stage while "The Jazz Singer" was being lensed and recorded in the Summer of 1927, "The Night Court" has the distinction of being the first sound film set within a courtroom, albeit of the nocturnal variety, a theme and setting that would loom large in the early talkies, featured in such films as "On Trial," "Tenderloin," "Queen of the Night Clubs," and "The Trial of Mary Dugan," and "Madam X," to name but a very few.

Make no mistake, despite the title and setting, "The Night Court" is pure musical frivolity --- a befuddled and clueless old Judge, a slick Broadway lawyer (William Demarest,) a free-spirited female jazz singer (Dottie Lewis,) an "exotic" dancer ("Joyzelle," who'd later gain everlasting cinematic fame as intergalactic dancer "Loo Loo" in Fox's 1930 "Just Imagine,) and a court-room filled with viewers, patrons, policemen and reporters all doing their best to hide their mirth at the absurd proceedings.

Arriving in theaters in late 1927, where it was sometimes advertised as "William Demarest & Co.," as in the ad to the right, the film proved immensely popular with audiences eager for fully synchronized speech and song, and would continue to be booked into cinemas across the country until the late summer of 1928 when it bowed out and retired into the shadows, seemingly forever --- until the relatively recent discovery of both the film's picture and sound elements resulted in restoration, preservation and extremely limited and select exhibition of the one-off variety (the old, old story yet again!)

"The Night Court" utilizes two popular melodies of the day, "When Erastus Plays His Old Kazoo" which is heard at the start and close of the film as dance music, and "I Ain't That Kind of A Baby," which is vocalized in strident fashion by Dottie (or Dolly?) Lewis. Both tunes are grand examples of 1927 popular music and for that reason (although one isn't really needed in this case --- they're that good!) two stand-alone versions are offered here for each melody.

Alex Jackson & His Orchestra (pictured right) does the honors for "When Erastus Plays His Old Kazoo," recorded in October of 1927,
and elusive female vocalist Esther Walker leaves little doubt as to where she stands in her spirited, full throttle rendition of "I Ain't That Kind of a Baby," recorded for Victor in September of that same year.

"When Erastus Plays His Old Kazoo" (1927)

"I Ain't That Kind of a Baby" (1927)


Divided into two sections to facilitate easier listening, here's "The Night Court" itself --- with some audio correction in place to repair the damage that well intentioned but overly enthusiastic "noise filtering" inflicts upon Vitaphone disc material which, if largely left alone, offers surprising sonics both low and high. (Much as I eagerly anticipate films like "The Jazz Singer" arriving on DVD, I shudder at how diminished the original Vitaphone disc audio will likely be by an attempt to "clean it up.")









"The Night Court" (1927) Part 1

"The Night Court" (1927) Part 2




For a night court of a somewhat different variety --- but one well suited to this post, here's a gem of an audio relic for the more open-minded and less sensitive of readers: "Hollywood Night Court," recorded in 1930. In what would come to be termed "blue" or "party records," simple concepts like a court-room scene would be enacted for a 78rpm recording with all manner of risque dialogue and double entendre of the sort that necessitated the disc being sold strictly under-the-counter. Although tame by modern standards, there's surprises aplenty here for the uninitiated in this dark corner of 78rpm recording history and for that reason listener discretion is advised.

"Hollywood Night Court" (1930)


To close out this post on a higher level --- or to at least attempt to, let's leave with the memory of the beaming fellow to our left. That's mandolin player extraordinaire, Bernardo De Pace, who was featured in a 1928 Vitaphone short subject that, although a dazzling performance piece, prompted one reviewer to matter-of-factly indicate that it wasn't always a love-fest between audiences and Vitaphone product: "Bernardo De Pace is an accomplished mandolinist, but his free flowing grimaces make him hard to enjoy."

We need not worry about such matters here, for as Mr. De Pace performs "That's Why I Love You" we adjourn this post and return readers to the protective custody of the waning days of 2006.

"That's Why I Love You" (1928)

Court & Bernardo De Pace Photos Courtesy The Daily News Collection of the Chicago Historical Society

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Of Magnascope and Vocalite

Those attending the 1930 grand opening of the Strand Theater in Shreveport, Louisiana (transformed from stage to cinema house) would be treated to a film presentation that surely impressed many of those in the audience as being the absolute height of sophisticated cinema technology.

If that statement doesn't impress you, then pause to consider that the average forty year old member of that audience would have already experienced, first hand, the rise of cinema from virtually it's inception onwards --- a thirty year span that carried with it such incredibly vast changes and advances in technology, method, style and presentation that it's difficult (if not impossible) to even seek comparisons to the emergence and advance of any entertainment medium (aside from the Internet, of course!) in our own recent past.

"The Cuckoos" (RKO-1930) offered audiences sound and Technicolor sequences, but the management of the Strand theater (now on the Register of Historic Places, and fully restored) went one step better with the installation a Mangascope screen and projection apparatus that, basically, enlarged the image from a viewing area of roughly 18x24' to anywhere from 18x34' all the way up to 22x38' --- filling the entire proscenium area with a motion picture image.

While the end result would likely be short of perfect, and would probably be deemed very poor indeed today (where so much as a stray hair in the projection gate is cause for alarm that warrants a multi-thousand dollar restoration project), the original effect and experience was probably more memorable than technically superb for the theater patrons of 1929 and 1930. Then too, without knowledge of what the future would bring, the present often seems just fine. Black and White television, circa 1965 comes to mind here. Before venturing on, it should be pointed out that Magnascope is not to be confused with the Fox Grandeur process, which involved a wide 70mm film stock and was quite superior --- but that's a topic for another post, certainly!



As cited in many books, the Magnascope process was utilized for exhibition of well known Paramount silent films like "Old Ironsides" (1926) and "Wings" (1927), but it came as a surprise to learn that Magnascope was very much in evidence throughout the early sound era and, remarkably, lasted into the 1940's where it was being used in some Paramount theaters. Truly, cause to reassess what we know --- or think we know --- about the film-going experience of 1929 and 1930 when we learn that otherwise familiar titles (both Paramount product and not) such as "Glorifying the American Girl," "Sally," "The Gold Diggers of Broadway," "Whoopee!," and "Paramount On Parade" were exhibited on these enlarged screens in theaters around and quite distant from major cities. For the film buff or historian, it's actually quite an exciting notion to ponder, especially given the content and pictorial beauty of these films.

Even as the first cycle of film musicals began to wind down, Maganscope was still being touted and installed in new theaters, such at The Baywood ("San Mateo's Theatre Moderne") where in 1931, "Reaching For the Moon" was projected in the process for audiences fast growing weary of musical films. Indeed, surviving as sad testament to this shift in public acceptance of the musical film format, "Reaching For the Moon" would arrive on screens --- enlarged or not --- greatly altered from the film first envisioned, with all but one of it's Irving Berlin melodies either cut completely or relegated to background music scoring. (And this, if press accounts are to be believed, down from the twenty tunes Berlin originally composed for the film!)


But, in the end, neither Magnascope nor "Vocalite Screens" (a screen coated with glass beading to improve brilliance while also allowing sound to better permeate it from loudspeaker horns placed behind it) nor the combination of the two (which was fairly common) could stem the tide from turning against the musical film nor lure audiences into theaters a year or so later when their primary concern was putting food on the table. Still, for a while at least --- it seemed that there was no limit to the heights the still new talking, singing and dancing picture would soar --- not unlike the Icarus of myth, flying blindly into the pastel rays of an early Technicolor sun.

To accompany this post, a few audio items of related interest to films mentioned in this post (much as I'd like to make available free fabric swatches of Vocalite screens, I cannot!)

An orchestra and vocal medley from "Paramount on Parade," for which I can find no information other than that it was a 78rpm commercial recording released in the US and UK alike.

Medley - "Paramount on Parade" (1930)

An extract from a Vitaphone (type) sound disc that was originally thought to be an overture disc for "Whoopee," but which is probably actually sound accompaniment to an unidentified period cartoon that simply made free use of a few melodies from the film. Whatever it is, it's a terrific orchestration!

Medley - "Whoopee!" (1930)

Lastly, originating from sound disc source material, the one surviving tune from "Reaching For the Moon," (the lovely title tune can only be heard during the titles and as incidental scoring) in which the voices of Bebe Daniels, Douglas Fairbanks, Bing Crosby, June MacCloy and Claude Allister (as the magnificently named Sir Horace Partington Chelmsford) can all be heard in a shipboard jazz party/musical sequence entitled "Low Down," a rousing, sparkling delight that hints at what other similar melodic moments the film might have contained had things been a bit different in late 1930.

"Low Down" (1930)

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The Dancing Masters

If you've seen at least one or two early musical films from either Metro or Warner Bros., then chances are you've seen the work of choreographers Larry Ceballos and Sammy Lee.

If you've seen numerous musical films of the period, then you've probably found yourself smiling, frowning, chuckling or rolling your eyes at the staging, settings and dancing contained within these films --- all reasonable reactions for the modern viewer who, from this distant point in time away from 1929 and 1930, has indeed "seen it all" before --- many times, and in just as many guises.

The one element that remains a constant when it comes to early musical films is that of surprise, I believe. While you more or less know what to expect when viewing musicals of the 30's or 40's,
there's often no telling what's about to happen when an early musical suddenly shifts into Technicolor footage, an orchestra leader raises his arms, and a shimmering curtain begins to stir, raise, part, spark into flame or be revealed to be cascading jets of water.

Even the most low-key of musical sequences in seemingly unspectacular musical films of the period can, and often does, suddenly switch gears into something else so entirely unexpected that the viewer, caught off guard, can't help but think "Well, how about that!" and, thereby hooked, stick around to see how it all plays out rather than begin fumbling for the fast-forward button.

Ingenuity, that's what it's all about. Ingenuity that, when combined with the spirit of enthusiasm and experimentation that came with the arrival of sound (and Technicolor), allowed for some of the most memorable (and some of the most bizarre) dance sequences imaginable to be put onto film for seemingly no other reason than that it hadn't been done before, or done in quite this way before --- and certainly not for motion pictures.

Today, we prefer to believe (for we've been told so, for decades) that the "vintage film musical" period began and ended with Busby Berkeley's landmark series of films for Warners' in the 1930's, and that Berkeley paved the way for all that would come after, but this simply isn't true --- just easier to understand and, perhaps, repeat in print or in documentaries when necessary. Truth be told, in the realm of the film musical, it was the likes of Larry Ceballos, Sammy Lee, Pearl Eaton, John Murray Anderson and many others who paved the way for Busby Berkeley.

Had not the musical film experienced a surge that resulted in deluge and then abandonment after two or so years, I have to question whether or not Berkeley's work (magnificently clever though it is) would have had the same impact it did (and continues to today) when it reappeared after the moratorium, seeming so fresh, new and vibrant after a period of endless unrelenting talk set in drawing rooms, newspaper offices, police stations, apartments and gangster hide-outs. While that's a question that's best not explored here, the fact does remain however that nearly every presumed innovation in Busby Berkeley's musical set pieces can be traced to earlier film musical work by others. Then too, and to be perfectly fair, it should be noted that the first wave of musical films mined heavily from the massive stockpile of Broadway, vaudeville and minstrel show presentations that preceded it by decades --- so it might not be a question of who "invented" it, but just who got the chance to do it first in sound films.

So, in the end, while it may be counter-productive to nitpick as to "Who did it first?" and "Who did it best?", these early musical films are best served by spotlighting the work of those who have been forgotten or overlooked by modern day viewers who, through no fault of their own, have come to believe that the film musical began with the arrival of "42nd Street" in 1932.

Courtesy of a surprisingly detailed and amusingly cautionary syndicated newspaper feature dating from December of 1929 titled "Dance Your Way Into the Movies," by one Alice L. Tildesley, we learn a bit of Larry Ceballos' (1897-1978) early days, and precious little of Sammy Lee's (1890-1968), but it's a worthwhile read for early film musical buffs to be sure.

One of Larry Ceballos' earliest film works was a 1928 two-reel, all-Technicolor short for Warner Bros. & Vitaphone titled "Larry Ceballos' Roof Garden Revue," which has remarkably beaten all odds by having its visual and sound disc elements hold on just long enough to experience interest, discovery, restoration, preservation and very (very!) limited presentation to well-informed prospective audiences lucky enough to be in the right city, on the right day and at the right hour --- a dubious and rather inglorious fate that many recently restored early sound films share: nearly complete lack of exhibition, promotion and marketing to an eager yet, apparently invisible, audience.

As I was one of those prospective audience members for whom the planets refused to align, I've never seen the film --- I've only heard it, via a transcription of disc material that I first encountered long before any serious effort existed to rescue films of this period.



"Larry Ceballos' Roof Garden Revue" consists of three portions. The first, consisting of spirited choreography performed by a male and female singing and dancing chorus and adagio specialty dancers which accompanies the tunes "Over the Garden Wall" and "It Was the Dawn of Love" (see still below,) and the second featuring a comedic rendition of the "Pretty Little Bom Bom Maid From Old Bombay" performed by the duo of Bailey & Barnum. Lastly, a precision dance routine set to "The Doll Dance," which would be revamped, re-staged and musically altered for inclusion in the Warners 1929 revue "Show of Shows" in a sequence titled "Larry Ceballos' Black & White Girls."

Offered here, audio transcriptions of disc source material that predates the source audio utilized for the restoration by over a decade and, as a musical bonus, an exceptionally lush version of "It Was the Dawn of Love" performed by Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra that was also recorded in 1928.

"Larry Ceballos Roof Garden Revue" (1928) Act 1

"Larry Ceballos Roof Garden Revue (1928) Act 2

"Larry Ceballos Roof Garden Revue" (1928) Act 3

"It Was the Dawn of Love" (1928)

Those who enjoy knowing such things should note that actress Lyda Roberti, who'd rise to fame in the early 1930's (primarily at Paramount) before her early death in 1938, can be heard distinctly (she had a style all her own, as those familiar with her know!) as a vocalist in the first act rendition of "It Was the Dawn of Love."

While Larry Cabellos was no slouch when it came to surrounding familiar dance routines in incredibly diverse and unusual settings (as in "Li Po Li" from "The Show of Shows" pictured at the top of this post,) Metro's Sammy Lee seems to have the creative edge here --- although Metro's bottomless wallet was doubtless an important factor that encouraged experimentation. What follows are two prime examples of Sammy Lee's work at it's ultimate surreal and tuneful best.

Although "It's A Great Life" (MGM-1929) has aired (albeit infrequently) on cable, when it does it's without it's final Technicolor sequence that serves as the film's musical finale. The footage, quite the best Technicolor footage in the entire film, does exist --- but for some inexplicable reason has not been restored to its proper place within the film it originates from.

Rather, if you happen to tune in between airings of a 1940's gangster film and a 1990's Japanese animated epic, you might just be lucky enough to catch this remarkable bit of footage.

Originally presented as a feverish hallucination of a bedridden and ill "Babe Hogan" (Vivian Duncan,) the sequence (titled "Sailing On A Sunbeam") opens with film supporting player Lawrence Gray providing a vocal rendition, which then gives way to a bevy of chorines that emerge from either side of the screen and join to form a stage-wide dance line.

An interesting effect occurs here as the lighting changes, putting the dancers into half-shadow against a brightly illuminated backdrop scrim of stylized willowy tree branches. A shift in tempo, and Rosetta and Vivian Duncan appear and take center stage to warble the melody, into which is cleverly worked a refrain of another song from the film, "I'm Following You."

As their vocal ends, the number takes a wild turn of the sort that only seemed to happen in musicals of 1929 and 1930. Suiting the action to the song title, the sisters Duncan are lifted heavenward on a puffy cloud --- higher, and higher, until they're surrounded by shimmering Art Deco sunbeams that (are you ready?) come into play by the chorines gathered on surrounding clouds, who leap onto them and, quite literally, sail downwards --- to points unknown (the one jarring aspect of the number), on slides representing sunbeams. Improbable and absurd, yet there it is --- joyful, exuberant, proud, and as entertaining as all heck. (Just don't look for it in TCM's next scheduled airing of "It's A Great Life" somewhere around 2009 --- tune in between airings of John Wayne films next month for a better chance of seeing it.)

"Sailing on a Sunbeam" (1929)



Closing out this imperfect post (for what could be more frustrating than not being able to see the work of a choreographer at the moment it's being discussed?) is another of Sammy Lee's inventive efforts, "The Woman in the Shoe" from the 1929 Metro film "Lord Byron of Broadway."

For years, this Technicolor musical sequence could only be seen as part of a 1933 short subject featuring Ted Healy and the Three Stooges ("Nertzery Rhymes") which drew upon old, presumably forgotten or unreleased footage (from the abandoned "March of Time" of 1930) for it's musical segments. Happily, the sequence hasn't been inexplicably orphaned as the Duncan Sisters footage has, and can be seen today in it's rightful place in the film it originally accompanied --- looking and sounding mighty fine too.

The delightful sort of timeless musical sequence that I always wished would be resurrected and staged as part of Radio City Music Hall's Christmas show, "The Woman in the Shoe" first presents us with a forlorn boot populated by an understandably weary gal and her battling brood.

Visited by a magic-wand toting Prince, the footwear is transformed into a decidedly 1929 style high-heeled shoe, and the drudge now appears as a slender elegant figure brandishing a feathered fan. (Curiously, the woman's children seem to have vanished completely --- suggesting her wish had an unexpected edge to it.) Vocalized by the tremendously talented Ethelind Terry (star of the Ziegfeld stage production of "Rio Rita") the tune forms the musical backdrop for presentation of familiar fairy-tale characters (most of them offering food, oddly) and a line of dancing girls costumed as "Four and Twenty Blackbirds." Far from as bile inducing as it may sound when described, it's tremendously tuneful and, dare I say, adorable.

"The Woman in the Shoe" (1930) Ethelind Terry

Ethelind Terry experienced the sort of publicity most stars today only dream of, just prior to her joining the production of "Lord Byron of Broadway," and these chronological newspaper reprints tell the story all by themselves. The post concludes with an interesting 1930 article in which Larry Ceballos discusses the challenge involved in choreographing dance for the talking picture medium.

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"In Fourteen Massive Reels"

From a syndicated news item dated February 20th, 1932:

"Musical pictures, which became so tiresome a couple of years ago that they almost faded out of notice, are due to stage a comeback this year, studio directors predict."

"One indication of the returning popularity of music was the success of a revived 'Rio Rita' in London. Three years old, the picture was modernized a bit, sent to London and drew capacity houses this winter."

"'When 'Rio Rita,' as a re-issued picture, can break box-office records in London and musical shows can outdraw any of the dramatic plays on Broadway, it's pretty clear that the public wants musical entertainment' remarked Max Steiner, head of the music department of the RKO studio."

"'The screen, in its early vocal days, overplayed the alliance between music and the theater, and abused it. The pendulum swung far away from the musical but now it's coming back to normal.'"


The "modernized" version of "Rio Rita" (RKO-1929) that filled cinema houses in London and was booked into theaters across the United States (and beyond) as late as October of 1933 is, by and large, the version of the film we're familiar with today --- and the same one that frequently airs on the Turner Classic Movies cable station.

Although vintage film titles are often prefaced on TCM with spoken introductions consisting of all manner of trivia, sometimes relevant and accurate and oftentimes neither, presentations of "Rio Rita" have never, to my knowledge, included mention of the fact that a very different version than the one that audiences first saw in 1929 is what's being offered --- a truncated version of "Rio Rita" that has little in common with the film that was such a spectacular critical, popular and financial success that it was held over in many theaters for two and sometimes as many as three weeks --- in a day when, outside of major cities, most films had a run of under one week and sometimes as few as four days.

As originally released, "Rio Rita" played in theaters across the country in a length of either fourteen or fifteen reels (according to period newspaper accounts) which can equate to a running time of anywhere between 130 and 160 minutes in theaters where the presentation included recorded (or live) Overture, Intermission and Exit music, which also indicates that elaborate presentations of this sort were not solely restricted to mammoth theaters in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, etc. as is frequently cited in various books as having been the case.

Although the extended length of the film posed some scheduling problems for theater owners that included the temporary suspension of accompanying live vaudeville acts or surrounding film material such as newsreels, short subjects and cartoons, the challenge appears to have been met with not only good will and spirit (doubtless aided by the knowledge that the film would perform incredibly well at the box office) but also with a remarkable sense of pride displayed by some theater owners and managers of the sort that, if not frequently seen in 1929 film advertising, then would be deemed decidedly peculiar and suspect in today's near complete absence of showmanship of any sort at the theater level.

One example of an typically accommodating theater owner faced with presentation of "Rio Rita" can be viewed below, which needs no explanation, only admiration. (As with all images in this blog, clicking on them will bring up a large and hopefully easy-to-read view.)



It's been said that the cuts to "Rio Rita" which formed the 1932 re-release version were done by the hand of none other than David O. Selznick, but whether true or not, the fact remains that the film was slashed by somewhere between four and five reels in length, amounting to at least forty minutes of deletions.

Curiously, although an attempt to "modernize" the film would be normally thought as an effort to punch up the pace a bit and to trim overly flowery or dated dialogue sequences, the cuts seem to have entirely been focused on musical material --- an odd decision in light of the fact that it was the musical content of the film that so appealed to audiences in Great Britain and America when the trimmed version premiered! In retrospect, audiences in 1932 and 1933 would have probably been better served if the film had been left intact --- and it's a certainty that we today would have been too.

I've noticed that modern viewers who encounter the film are cleanly divided between those who are confounded and baffled by the film's Ziegfeldian staging and pacing and to whom the film can never be satisfying in any form, and those viewers --- although few in numbers, who detect that something is not quite right with the "Rio Rita" as it exists today. Musical cues slowly rise only to be cut away from, characters are spoken of yet never seen in the context of the moment, dancers are seen exiting scenes that they were never seen to enter, and unintentional jumps in continuity all serve to make what was once a finely tooled, tried and true success seem the work of amateur filmmakers, performers and technicians.

It's difficult to ascertain precisely what content is missing from current circulating prints of "Rio Rita," as my only reference points are a dimly remembered screening of a mostly intact print at New York's Museum of Modern Art a number of years ago where it played to a delighted and appreciative full house of viewers (that included myself and and Ed Watz, who'd eventually author a fine book on the comedy team of Bert Wheeler and Robert Woolsey) all of whom didn't realize they'd likely never see "Rio Rita" in so complete a form again, and a set of fourteen Vitaphone-type sound discs that accompanied the film for a European engagement.

While not definitive, among the deletions from the early and mid sections of the film are Dorothy Lee's song and dance rendition of "The Kinkajou," two extended dance sequences at the costume ball choreographed by Pearl Eaton (as were all dances for the film,) a duet rendition of "You're Always In My Arms" performed by stars John Boles and Bebe Daniels, and most lamentably, a delightfully risque tune that segues into a pre-code delight of a production number entitled "Are You There?" performed by Bert Wheeler and Dorothy Lee as frustrated honeymooners forced to share separate bedrooms on their first night as man and wife (production still, below right.)

Deletions begin in the film's second half (all Technicolor, with action set aboard a gigantic "pirate barge") straight away. The multi-hued portion of the film begins in a stunningly majestic fashion, with a male singer vocalizing "Over the Boundary Line," while standing before what looks to be a billowing silk curtain (festooned with Ziegfeld-like showgirls on either side.) As the song gets underway, the "curtain" begins to pull upwards and away, as it's revealed to actually be a ship's sail that, once raised, affords full view of the curved and ornate ship railings, fittings, decking and stairways leading upwards on either side to a dining and dancing area while dress extras in tuxedos and gowns casually parade before the camera.

As heard in "Deleted Footage #1," the audio excerpt includes material cut from this sequence, including a brief musical bridge (immediately following the conclusion of the opening vocal) that allowed the camera to glide across the expansive set so as to give audiences a moment to absorb details and gain an all important sense of place and location. This was immediately followed by a Saber Dance (also deleted) performed by chorines clad in the Ziegfeld notion of a female pirate --- red satin shorts, high boots and jaunty hats replete with a skull and crossbones insignia. Following the dance, (and the cut version resumes here) Robert Woolsey advises guests that a wedding may take place and recommends that they suitably "fortify" themselves for the event.

"Rio Rita" (1929) Deleted Footage #1


A bit later on, the plot develops to the point where Rita (Bebe Daniels) learns that she has no choice but to be married, against her will, to the villain of the film, General Ravinoff (George Renavent,) so as to protect her brother. Her heart beats only for Captain Jim Stewart (John Boles) and as she reluctantly dons her wedding gown, she reprises "You're Always In My Arms" in a tearful rendition that has been entirely deleted but which can be heard here in "Deleted Footage #2."

"Rio Rita" (1929) Deleted Footage #2


One of the few new songs written for the 1929 film version that turned out to be one of the loveliest in either the old or new score, was "Sweetheart, We Need Each Other." Performed twice in the film's Technicolor portion --- first as a duet and eccentric dance by Bert Wheeler and Dorothy Lee, the tune's second presentation was reduced to half its length for the 1932 re-issue. Vocalized by Wheeler, Woolsey, Dorothy Lee and Helen Kaiser (seated aboard the ship's rail) it turns into a slapping match between the two comedians and concludes with all four being knocked overboard into the water below. In the original print, following a quick view of the foursome floundering in the water, a raucous musical note returned the viewer to the deck of the pirate barge. A doorway in the middle of the deck was flung open, and out poured the production's entire female dance ensemble, clad in gold and silver costumes with bright crimson accents, for a jazzy dance reprise of the melody that includes some wonderful, tightly choreographed synchronized tap dancing arranged by Pearl Eaton. It can't easily be seen today --- if at all, but it can be heard here via a (sadly!) exceptionally worn sound disc in "Deleted Footage #3."

"Rio Rita" (1929) Deleted Footage #3

For the last deleted sequence offered in this post, we turn to John Boles who could be heard singing "Following the Sun Around" to a newly hopeful Bebe Daniels once he makes his appearance aboard the pirate barge.

"Rio Rita" (1929) Deleted Footage #4

In the grand scheme of things, I suppose that the deletion or restoration of these forty odd moments of film footage would matter little one way or another in modern appraisal (or condemnation) of the film, for opinions of films and musicals of this vintage are all too often set down or formed without the film even having ever been seen, in any form or length.

Rather, the only truly disagreeable aspect to all this (for, in reality we're lucky to have the film with us in any shape) would center upon the fact that the film can be restored to a length approximating it's original release version, but is apparently so little thought of by the companies that now own it, that they're seemingly even unaware of the film's cut status. I like to think that perhaps one or two people are in place that have a degree of knowledge within the realm of film history, and --- just as important, real fondness for the product they regularly schedule for cable airing, but in cases such as this, one does wonder.

Rounding out this post, a selection of commercial 78rpm recordings associated with the film. First up, a performance of the film's title tune dating from the product's Broadway stage incarnation --- in this case 1927, as recorded by Nathaniel Shilkret & the Victor Orchestra in February of that year. Complete with castanets and swirling violins, it's as evocative as it is effective.

Medley - "Rio Rita" (1927) Shilkret

Lastly, perhaps the best of the many medleys that were recorded during the film's stage and screen periods. Recorded by the Colonial Club Orchestra in October of 1929, this two-sided 78rpm recording offers vocal and instrumental renditions of (again) the title tune, "Rio Rita," along with "If You're In Love You'll Waltz," Sweetheart We Need Each Other," "The Kinkajou," "You're Always in My Arms" and "Following the Sun Around."

Medley - "Rio Rita" (1929) Part 1

Medley - "Rio Rita" (1929) Part 2

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Divertimento

The young lady depicted to your left in poster artwork for the Warner Bros. All-Technicolor 1929 musical "The Gold Diggers of Broadway" is Ann Pennington. While largely underused in what would be her most important, popular and successful screen appearance, her trademark high-kicks and knack for the "shimmy" dance movement electrified audiences attending the film, just as they did well before 1929 and long after.

Although I've not seen enough of her small body of film work to pass absolute or even fair judgement of her versatility as a dancer, (her two key dance scenes in "Gold Diggers" have yet to resurface) it is however interesting to note that her dancing in "Tanned Legs," "Happy Days" and (presumably) "Gold Diggers" is all much the same --- although what she does, and how she does it is undeniably unique. Her screen dance moments are possessed of such apparent ease, abandon and seemingly tremendous enjoyment of the moment that to watch her can't help but be a memorable experience because she rings so utterly true. Whatever the role or character, it all falls away when she's called upon to dance, and what's left is pure pleasure.

As noted, although I've only seen enough of Pennington to amount to a handful of minutes, I was surprised not long ago by just how identifiable her style of dance was. While viewing hours of silent Kodachrome film footage taken at the 1939 New York World's Fair, a fleeting moment of film taken an outdoor Fair attraction titled "George Jessel's Old New York" had an oddly familiar look to it. Seen from a distance, on the silent footage that moved far too quickly, onto a small stage designed to look like an early 1900's boxing ring, bounded a short, plump raven-haired woman I felt certain was Ann Pennington, and later discovered certainly was. The dancer duplicates the same dance steps she had performed in films only ten years earlier but which, by 1939 was so distant that it was accepted as a Turn of the Century style performance by the assembled crowd of perhaps forty or fifty spectators. Eerie.



Ann Pennington's absence from release prints of the 1929 Warner Bros. revue "The Show of Shows" is puzzling in of itself, but made more so by the film's use of a tune called "Believe Me" in the finale that would turn up soon thereafter in a Technicolor short subject that starred the actress, titled "Hello Baby." Unlike every other tune employed in the massive closing sequence, "Believe Me" isn't to be found anywhere else in the film, which suggests that earlier presentation of the melody in the body of the film was cut before release in an effort to trim off minutes of an already long motion picture. A commercially released 78rpm recording by Irene Bordoni (a featured performer in the Warner revue) of the tune further hints at the fact that the deleted sequence may have featured the French performer as well as Pennington, and a curious production photograph of Myrna Loy and Grant Withers in historical costume of vixen and gladiator also (possibly!) suggests that "Believe Me" may have served as the melodic framework for a tableaux of some sort.

In general release at the same time as "Show of Shows," the two-reel All Technicolor short "Hello Baby" (which shares fairly equal billing with the Rin-Tin-Tin feature depicted left) is a happy example of a lost film that emerged from the shadows quite unexpectedly, and in it's original well-preserved Technicolor hues too --- an unlikely event in of itself. Without having seen it, it's difficult to ascertain whether Pennington's performance of "Believe Me" could possibly have been lifted bodily from "The Show of Shows" after having been snipped, but the surviving disc audio hints at this, as the arrangement and orchestration of the tune is virtually identical to the version heard in the revue film. This audio extract features the two-reeler's opening title music --- which gives way to the sound of a back-firing jalopy of the sort in vogue among collegians at the time (often with all manner of motto and snappy expressions painted on the car body) and then the puzzling tune in question, "Believe Me," vocalized by Miss Pennington and then reprised by the chorus.

"Believe Me" (1929) Ann Pennington


Co-starring with Ann Pennington in "Gold Diggers of Broadway" was Winnie Lightner who effectively walked off with both the film and the lion's share of critical acclaim while instantaneously endearing herself to audiences as well. For many of those who would flock to see "Gold Diggers" either on it's initial release or at one of the film's many return engagement "by popular demand" bookings (that continued into the early 1930's) Lightner wasn't precisely a new face and certainly not a new discovery --- but she did, at last, seem to find the perfect arena for her persona and talents.

First hitting the "big time" in two Broadway editions of Shubert's "Gay Paree" musical revue that ran for a combined total of 373 performances between August of 1926 and April of 1927 on Broadway alone before touring, Lightner was enough of a whirlwind presence to gain special mention in nearly every review of the production which, as a whole, was met with mixed reception as indicated in the December 1925 review below --- just the sort of review that then, as now, would have guaranteed a box office rush!

It wasn't more than a few years before time and technology combined to result in Lightner (who was aptly billed as "The Song A Minute Girl" or "The Joy Girl of Song") being called before the Vitaphone film and recording apparatus, and her one-reel short subject(s) were so exceptionally well received that they continued to be booked well after their initial 1928 release.

Aside from her memorable appearances in "Show of Shows," in which she introduced the immortal brutal parody of "Singin' in the Rain" titled "Singing in the Bathtub," "Life of the Party" and the missing believed lost feature "She Couldn't Say No," Lightner was at her unrestrained, rambunctious, raucous and endearing best in "Gold Diggers" and "Hold Everything." The latter film, a 1930 All-Technicolor musical comedy visualization of the Broadway success that has, unhappily, completely vanished --- leaving only it's sound discs behind to intrigue, entertain and feebly hint at what once was a hugely popular film success that, judging by the surviving audio, would make another all-Technicolor 1930 stage-to-screen musical, Paramount's "Follow Thru," seem a very weak sister by comparison indeed.

Two examples of Winnie Lightner, from "Gold Diggers of Broadway" and "Hold Everything."

In the first extract, Lightner positively scandalizes poor blustering Albert Gran with her rendition of "Keeping the Wolf From the Door" during an apartment party sequence in "Gold Diggers of Broadway," wherein Gran sees his fate being sealed with each "woof!" Winnie emits in his direction.

"Keeping the Wolf From the Door" (1929)


From "Hold Everything," and in keeping with the production's unlikely (but successful) setting within the world of boxing championships, Winnie Lightner is joined by a singing and dancing chorus (all clad in stylized satin boxing togs of various hues) in "Take It On the Chin."

"Take It on the Chin" (1930)

The legendary "long count" boxing match between Gene Tunney and Jack Dempsey held in September of 1927 was very much a certifiable "media event" long before the term would be coined, and the event was so rapidly absorbed into popular culture via print and electronic media, that details of the event would still be vibrant and immediately identifiable to listeners of a clever 1927 recording by pianist/comedian Clarence Senna. Recorded in the last days of December of 1927, it's easy to imagine the record being played in many a home as 1928 dawned. It's one of those rare topical recordings that has the power to put the modern day listener right there in the moment of the day. (Below Left: Gene Tunney - Below Right: Jack Dempsey.)

"The Demsey-Tunney Fight" (1927)

If you're reading this blog, chances are you need no introduction to either the film "The Broadway Melody" (Metro-1929) or one of it's stars, Charles King. Invariably the recipient of harsh criticism for a style of acting and vocalization we can't easily understand or appreciate today, I believe that he (and many like him) can best be appreciated if you alter your perception a bit.

Rather than consider (as many books tend to) "The Broadway Melody" as the spark that created a brief film career that would vanish by the mid-1930's, a more truthful appraisal would include the understanding that the landmark film musical simply served to crown a very long and very successful career. He was a man in the right place, at the right time and with the right and credentials to appear in "Broadway Melody", but if the film never happened, he would have still possessed the sort of career that most performers born directly into cinema could only hope to.

Partnered with singer and composer Elizabeth Brice in the 1914-1915 Irving Berlin "syncopated musical" "Watch Your Step," (New Amsterdam Theater, New York - 175 performances) which starred popular dance icons Vernon & Irene Castle, the show served as the vehicle that put Brice and King into the spotlight, resulting in featured appearances in the touring company of "Watch Your Step" throughout 1916, as well as individual vaudeville bookings for the pair and a Columbia recording contract that same year as well.

While clearly rooted to 1916, it's as enjoyable as it is curious to hear Charles King in the recording that follows, because owing to our presumed familiarity with the 1929 film it becomes immediately clear that his performance style was cemented by the date of this recording --- meaning that he was, quite simply, just himself in the early talkie; a proven talent on stage and screen (he appeared in the aborted 1928 Marion Davies production "The Five O' Clock Girl"), utilizing a proven formula at the peak of his career --- rather than beginning one as some might suppose.

"I've Gotta Go Back to Texas" (1916)

After "The Broadway Melody" and "Chasing Rainbows," in which he was again paired with Bessie Love, Charles King gradually fades away from mention in the press --- a stage appearance and club date here and there throughout the 1930's --- but there's no indication he remained anything less than a content, healthy, popular and productive fellow pursuing and achieving a well-deserved "normal" domestic life after nearly three decades of toil on the stage, before the recording microphone, in active military service during the Great War, and ultimately on the talking picture screen.

King emerges again however, at the height of World War II, when scattered reports of his death began to appear in early January of 1944. Aboard ship en route to Britain to join a troop of USO entertainers, Charles King contracted pneumonia and died in London on January 11th, aged 57 (in truth.) King was buried in Brookwood National Cemetery, in Surrey, UK, with full military honors, yet a vast distance away from the New York street his voice so effectively sang the glories of in 1929.

Here, also from "The Broadway Melody," a Charles King rendition of quite a different tune, the solemn and wistful "Love Boat," performed in the film as a tableaux --- a nearly forgotten form of artistic stage presentation that doubtless baffles curious viewers of the film today, prompting usage of descriptive terms like "static."

"Love Boat" (1929) Charles King

Not many months transpired between the Broadway closing of Cole Porter's musical "Paris" and the November 1929 premiere of the part-Technicolor Warner Bros. screen version, no prints of which are known to have survived. Enough written and aural material exists to warrant a simple reconstruction of the film in these pages, and you can expect to find one here early in the coming year. For now, and for no reason other than that I think you might enjoy it, here are two renditions of a song from the Broadway production that was reworked for the film (four songs were cut and replaced with others for the screen version including, incredibly, "Let's Do It - Let's Fall In Love") titled "The Land of Going To Be."

Recorded for Victor in March of 1928, the music is provided by Irving Aaronson and his Commanders and the vocal by one Jack Armstrong, with some choral voices for the closing reprise.

"The Land of Going To Be" (1928)


From a set of surviving Vitaphone discs for the export version of the film, the same melody performed by Jack Buchanan and Irene Bordoni. Buchanan begins the melody on a piano in his hotel suite, is heard by Bordoni from an adjoining suite of rooms --- she then picks up the vocal while sauntering in to join the phantom musician. Caught between the striking designs of the piano and Bordoni's zebra pelt coat, Mr. Buchanan's expression is to be understood.

"The Land of Going to Be" (1929) Vitaphone Disc

Rounding out this double-sized issue of "Vitaphone Varieties," a few brief items of passing interest.

Promotion for Universal's 1930 musical revue "The King of Jazz" naturally extended onto the radio airwaves, and while nothing has survived that features Paul Whiteman's Orchestra, a radio appearance by three of his vocalists, The Rhythm Boys (Bing Crosby, Al Rinker and Harry Barris) does exist, and is excerpted here. Originally heard on K-FOX in May of 1930.

"The Rhythm Boys" (1930) Radio Transcription



Vaudevillian Willie Howard, who's performing career was born nearly along with 20th century vaudeville itself, and who achieved fame as part of "The Howard Brothers" (Eugene and Willie, pictured left in 1921) was what is best described as a "Jewish dialect comedian," and a hugely entertaining one at that. His circa-1925 recording of "When Nathan Was Married to Rose of Washington Square" is a sterling example of his work. No nervous wringing of hands is called for here, as his humor is gentle and certainly rings true to this author's ears --- which can still faintly recall hearing similar voices, humor, malapropisms and accents from his early childhood days in the heart of blue-collar Irish, Italian, German and Jewish Brooklyn. First or second generation New York immigrant voices, --- which, once passing on, weren't to be replaced by others. Rather, just simply lost to time and memory and sometimes, as in this recording, preserved forever. Dearly, and sorely missed voices.

"When Nathan Was Married to Rose of Washington Square" (1925)

Lastly, and you may consider this "Exit Music" for this edition, an infinately catchy tune from Metro's largely underappreciated or misunderstood (or both) anti-hero musical of 1929, "Lord Byron of Broadway." Performed here in a British recording by the spot-on Harry Hudson Band, "The Woman in the Shoe" is bound to linger long after you've heard it, and is actually a far better rendition than would be recorded here in the States by the usually excellent Nathaniel Shilkret, who missed the mark somehow with this one.

"The Woman in the Shoe" (1930)

(Photographs of Ann Pennington (1925), Eugene and Willie Howard (1921), Gene Tunney (1927) and Jack Dempsey (1927) courtesy of the Chicago Daily News Collection of the Chicago Historical Society.

SDN-066937, SDN-066851, DN-0079720, & DN-0073416.)

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After "After the Show"

Unfinished business related to the previous post that detailed the Pathe Studio fire.

On December 12th of 1929, two days after the tragedy, and amidst funeral services being held across the city and it's boroughs for those killed, John C. Flynn (or "Flinn," it varies in accounts) Vice President and Harry F. Lalley, Business Manager of Pathe Sound Studios, Inc. were arrested on charges of manslaughter.

Police had seized 160 containers that was estimated to hold between 50,000 and 100,000 feet of highly inflammable film, a flagrant violation of a city ordinance that prohibited the storage of more than five reels of film in standard buildings such as the one in which the fire occurred.

What precisely transpired after the arrest is unclear owing to the story all but completely vanishing from the press, but apparently they were released soon afterwards. The next time the matter would appear across news wires was four months later in April of 1930, when it was announced that two indictments were handed down for the pair, charging manslaughter in the second degree --- but only in two of the ten (or eleven, according to some accounts) persons who died in the fire.

The counsel for Flynn & Lalley, Nathan Burkan, informed the District Attorney that he would surrender the two accused men "next Monday, when they will plead 'not guilty'." He explained that the delay was due to Mr. Lalley being in California. The indictments were based solely on the deaths of Catherine Parker and Edna Burford, the legal names of two of the deceased chorus girls. The defendants were accused of "gross and culpable negligence" in not providing automatic sprinklers and fire extinguishers in the studios under their control, as well as accusing the two of being negligent in permitting more than 5,000 feet of inflammable and combustible motion picture films to be stored in the building.

I'd like very much to tell you what happened next --- that the two were found guilty and tossed in jail for a reasonable length of time, but owing to an astonishing lack of documentation on the trial (if there was one, that is) and aftermath, I've no clue. Casual consulting with a legal expert presented a few possibilities which can be sorted out as to their feasibility or lack thereof.

1) The case went to trial, and there were convictions or the pair was found innocent, but for some unknown reason, these convictions or dismissals were not reported, and nor were the trials. Deemed highly unlikely.

2) The case was settled before going to trial, with fines and/or probation. Lack of interest results in non-reporting of the non-sensational outcome. Deemed possible.

3) The charges were dropped, for lack of evidence, lack of witnesses, etc., or... perhaps the most likely explanation given New York City government of the day (Tammany Hall, Jimmy Walker, Judge Crater), someone simply "got bought."

Whatever the case, 1930 would mark the end of the line for Pathe. By December of that year, it was announced that Pathe would become property of the Radio-Keith-Orpheum Corporation (RKO) for a cost of $4,630,789 which would include the Pathe studio and property in Culver City, California, the New Jersey film printing laboratories, the Pathe News and Audio Review and all of Pathe's existing distribution facilities and exchanges throughout the United States and Great Britain.

The exchange of cash seems to have been what ultimately washed away all traces of the 1929 fire, and all presumed sins connected with it --- a turn of events we today aren't entirely unfamiliar with, unfortunately.

In one of those ghastly coincidences of fate, the 1929 Pathe feature-length musical film "Red Hot Rhythm" (Directed by Leo McCarey) was in general release at the time the studio fire occurred and was being reported. Unintentionally ghoulish title aside, the film was a light comedy in which Alan Hale portrayed a "music racketeer" of Tin Pan Alley who writes songs and fleeces would-be composers by publishing their product and stealing away their profits. Finding himself involved in a love-triangle in which he becomes the victim, he sees the error of his ways and is reformed. Co-starring with Hale was Kathryn Crawford, Josephine Dunn, Walter O'Keefe, Jimmy Clemons, Ilka Chase and Anita Garvin.

Featuring five musical sequences, I can't help but find it a bit curious that although the film is deemed lost -- one sequence has managed to survive, seemingly clipped out of a print at some point early in the film's life and carefully stored away while the rest of the film gradually decomposed and vanished.

The curious aspect is that the excised sequence, photographed in an early color process, consists of a performance of the film's title tune, "Red Hot Rhythm" and features a stylized depiction of chorus girls being menaced and ordered to dance by a long-legged Satanic-like fellow. Dance they do, tapping, stepping and kicking their way up and down a small set of silver steps. As the dancing reaches a frenzied climax, colored streamers appear representing flames swirling about the dancers, and the whole sequence ends with superimposed real flames forming a curtain as the number concludes.

I'll leave you to listen to an audio transcription of this sequence and to draw your own conclusions as to why someone thought to snip these few minutes out of a complete print, quite without knowing that their motives --- if there were any --- would be questioned over three-quarters of a century later. Like the outcome of the arrest of the two Pathe executives, perhaps there are indeed things it's best we don't examine too closely.

"Red Hot Rhythm" (1929) Excerpt

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After the Show

Seventy-seven years ago, on December 10th 1929 --- exactly seventy-seven years ago to this day, a tragic event occurred which would capture the nation's attention for a few days as the story battled for space in newspapers focused upon world events, the upcoming Christmas and New Year holidays, and attempts to decipher the ominous chords reverberating through the skyscraper canyons of New York City's financial district that were slowly spreading outwards, upwards and away.

In the end, and as it would today, the heartbreaking and frightening front-page story would reduce itself to a paragraph or two of human interest material and then, vanish entirely --- likely going unnoticed by readers eager to escape gloom and doom reports as the ticking of clocks ushered in a new decade that, at least initially, held high promise and expectation as the successor to a decade that had left the country as exhausted as it was exhilarated.

In late 1929, as you traveled up Park Avenue --- well beyond the reach or notice of the famed street's addresses and residents of wealth, stood a nondescript three story brick structure with a basement storage facility. Surrounded by several five and six story "thickly populated" tenement buildings, and steps away from the Harlem River canal --- then busy with waterborne traffic of the sort that has long since passed from memory, the building would surely have been the last place any film goer or even neighborhood resident would equate with the snappy, raucous and tuneful short subjects --- some in color -- they would have seen in theaters throughout 1929.

As the headquarters of the Pathe Motion Picture Exchange and Manhattan Studios, Inc., inside the dull brick walls lurked hints of Hollywood magic, although so diminished and makeshift as to have surely been a crushing disappointment to any visitor seeking so much as a wafted sense of the West Coast film kingdom.

Churning out film after film, all largely profitable so long as they talked, sang and danced, the Pathe Comedies (or "Musical Reviews") were lowbrow entertainment at best, cobbled together based upon what vaudeville talent was available for hire, and the ingenuity of the writers and directors (one person often performing double duty) for inventing threadbare pegs upon which to hang a bit of comedic patter, a musical number or two and plenty of flash and pretty girls. Especially pretty girls. With youthful figures, beaming smiles and dancing legs, all manner of technical and production inadequacy could be masked, or at least overlooked by satisfied audiences.

On the morning of December 10th, the small, claustrophobic and cluttered studio --- its walls thickly padded with sound absorbing material --- was filled nearly to capacity as filming began for "Harry Delmar's Miniature Review." (There is some confusion as to the title of the film in production --- some sources claim the title as being "The Black and White Revue" or "Sixteen Sweeties.") The studio sound-stage, set in the rear of the building's first floor, held Eddie Elkins and his twelve-piece jazz band (hired to perform the music for the film,) one set of chorus girls (versatile dancers or "pony girls") comedians, technicians, a director and his various assistants, cameramen, electricians and do-it-all studio employees. In total, fifteen girls and fifty men were crowded into the filming area. A short flight upstairs from the sound stage, another fifteen girls --- hired as statuesque show-girls, were in their dressing room awaiting their call. Throughout the rest of the building were many other employees, including those working in the office area, and the areas given over to film processing, storage, and cutting. Ironically, this was also the day that a number of officials of the Pathe Company proper had chosen to drop in.

Having set before you what I hope amounts to a verbal image prologue of the setting for the events about to unfold, I now choose to allow the written voice of 1929 step forward and tell the story as only it can and rightfully, should. Your author shall return momentarily.

"The first number to be recorded was to have been the pony ballet, dancing and singing to the music of Elkin's orchestra. The girls had been called from their dressing room and were gathered on the stage, while the musicians gave the final toot at their saxophones and tightened the head of the big bass drum. In a minute the director would shout 'Camera!,' the music would begin, the girls would start to dance and sing and the dreams of the girls of the pony ballet that some time they would appear in the movies would be a reality."

"But just then an electrician saw a spectacular flash and one of the dancers on the stage cried 'Fire!.' That was the end of the dream. A stage hand grabbed a fire extinguisher and turned it towards the great, black velvet back drop from around the edges of which flames were licking out towards the fluffy bands of ruffles and feathers which made up the ballet girls costumes. The girls screamed and drew away. The big curtain billowed out as if reaching for them. Then there was a puff which shook the place and flames enveloped the curtain and much of the stage."

"The chorines fled in terror. Cameramen, their cameras already set up, seized their costly machines and ran. Studio hands tried to stop the flames. In a moment there was confusion, screaming and shouting everywhere. Upstairs, the second set of chorus girls, awaiting their call to the stage, were gathered in a dressing room rubbing the last touch of color to lips and cheeks, and making fast the last flimsy bit of costume. Bernard Mahooney burst into the room. 'Step out girls, make it lively! Get right busy!' They thought it an ill-tempered way to give their call and moved slowly to the door. But when the first girl was out.... she saw her sisters in a wild fight for the exits as flames snarled from the stage and leaped from section to section of the soft-padded walls. Soon the girls behind her had joined the flight and were fighting, somewhat blindly for their very lives."

"Kay McIvory, working on a cowboy film in the cutting room, heard the cries and at the door she was met by billowing smoke. She was caught in the panic-stricken crowd and literally swept onto the street. Walter Sternge of the cutting room staff saw the fire reflecting from the ceiling in the finder of his camera. He carried his machine to the street and returned to help girls to safety. He did not give up until he himself had been severely burned."

"In the executive offices on the second floor, Joseph E. Flynn, vice president, was dictating letters to his secretary, noticed smoke and looked out on the mezzanine floor to see flames reaching up for him. With his secretary, he climbed from a window to a stone ledge 35 feet above the street where, 15 minutes later, firemen rescued him, his secretary and Leonard Malone with extension ladders."

"Bobby Carney, Cy Wells, and Harry McNaughton, the three comedians hired for the film, were in their dressing rooms. They fled in safety. Ruth Goodwin, ingenue, awaiting her call in her own dressing room, likewise escaped unhurt."

"Carl Edwards, an orchestra leader, had just finished in the projection room an inspection of the music he had prepared for an 'Aesop's Fable' (cartoon). 'I had started out and a sheet of white hot flame met me at the door, so I crawled out a window to a fire escape but there the fire was licking all around me. I saw the only chance there was and jumped for an iron bar which ran from the building down to a fence adjacent. By a miracle I caught the bar with both hands.' He went down the bar, hand over hand, until almost at the fence he lost his hold, fell and broke his leg. 'The police left me on the sidewalk and as I lay there on a stretcher looking up at the burning building, I saw girls gathered screaming for help at one window. Some of them had their costumes afire. Their agony was terrible. But no one could help them."

As these odd dozen stories of survival were being enacted, nearly as many had met an awful death --- either by flame or smoke or by being trampled and crushed in narrow stairwells and hallways.

By 11AM, the fire was out. Gathered outside were those who had escaped unhurt, many hysterical. The chorus girls who had survived stood in the chill of that winter morning, shivering in their dance costumes --- their faces a grotesque mask of pancake and rouge smeared with ash and soot, further distorted by the streaming of tears that cut through the grime as best it could in the frigid air. They were soon gathered up and taken to the nearby offices of Crane & Co., a plumbing supply house, where they were warmed, quieted and sent home --- still incredibly dazed, in taxicabs.

Although news reporting wasn't anything remotely similar to what we're accustomed to today, it wasn't as slow as we might suppose -- or would like to, either. Powered by radio, telephone, telegraph and that most powerful of all mediums, the spoken word --- carried by automobile, subway, trolley, truck, taxi and foot ---news of the tragedy spread throughout the city with speed approaching or nearly exceeding that of the fire itself.

We can only imagine the scenes enacted as taxicabs unloaded their human cargo at points all throughout the city and adjacent boroughs, and given the fact that many an expected taxi would never arrive at addresses where dwelt family, friends and neighbors beside themselves in panic --- it's just as well there weren't camera toting reporters at the ready to jab microphones under noses so as to ask "What are you feeling?"

While I'm reluctant to do so, a detailed list of those who lost their lives in the Pathe fire on December 10th 1929 seems somehow in order, if only for the fact I feel it's been far too long since these names have been spoken by those who knew them, or read by those who didn't. The chasm of time and memory still remains, but perhaps grows a bit smaller by doing so.

Joseph Bishoff, a make-up man, of 20 West 120th Street, NYC (Trapped)

Anna Buford, 20, chorus girl, of 206 West 99th Street, NYC (Suffocated)

Norine Burne, 24, chorus girl, of 549 39th Street, Brooklyn (Stampeded)

Charles Koerble, an electrician, of 141 Halsey Lane in Leonia, NJ (Burned)

Carl Kramer, an electrician, of 1631 Grand Avenue, the Bronx (Burned)

Robert Nussman, an electrician, of 617 East Fordham Road (Collapsed in death at scene)

Catherine Porter, 21, chorus girl, of 50 West 65th Street, NYC (Stampeded)

Jack Quinn, a property man, of 56 Dean Street, Brooklyn (Burned)

Jola Sparks, 16, chorus girl, of 1520 Sheridan Avenue, the Bronx (Trapped)

Earnest Wilson, bookkeeper, of Amsterdam Avenue and 113th Street, NYC (Trapped)

One of the last musical two-reel films to be produced at the Pathe Studio prior to the fire was in general release at the time of the tragedy. Titled "After the Show," and written and directed by Harry Delmar (who was also at the helm of the film in production at the time of the fire), the 20 minute short featured vaudevillians Jack Pepper (married to Ginger Rogers), Jack Wolf (the father of living legend NYC sportscaster supreme, Warner Wolf,) Si Wills (also in the film being produced when the blaze occurred,) Joe Ray and Paul Garner. Not least of all, the film also featured (no picture material survives for this title --- only one half of the film's sound, on disc) a great many singing and dancing girls --- certainly many of whom were present at the scene of the disaster, and possibly all four of those who perished.

Although "After the Show" was widely booked at the time of, and after the fire, newspapers, theaters and film exchanges wisely avoided drawing attention to the fact. There was one exception however, and that was in a Danville, Virginia newspaper which seemed to be caught between promoting the appearance of a local citizen in the short film and touching upon a tragic situation. They attempted to do both, carefully and somewhat successfully. Both are reproduced below.

Also offered here, is the audio of the surviving Vitaphone (type) disc that accompanied "After the Show," a lost film, as noted above. The ten or so minutes that comprised the length of the first reel has been split into two sections to facilitate listening.

It's difficult to determine who exactly is whom in disconnected audio such as this, but I believe the harried stage manager who banters with a marvelously obnoxious fellow as the film opens is Jack Wolf.

The musical number that concludes the first reel, "The Jig-a-Boo Jig" has so much in common with a similar number in the 1929 Warner Bros. Alice White vehicle "Broadway Babies," titled "Jig-Jig-Jigaloo" that I'm surprised a lawsuit never evolved. But, truth be told, Pathe never would or could pose a threat to the mighty Warner Bros., and then too, Warner Bros. -- as every film studio worldwide, would have been all too aware of the events of a day that we've long since forgotten or --- when infrequently mentioned --- is quite without the voices or names of those who lived through it, and those who didn't.

"After the Show" (1929) Part 1

"After the Show" (1929) Part 2

The song "Here We Are" was very much a hit of the day at the time both "After the Show" and the ill-fated musical short that followed later were in production. Heard in a piano rendition during the dance rehearsal sequence of "After the Show," a commercially released 78rpm version of the tune --- and a sweetly melancholy one at that, is offered here, recorded in mid-1929 by the singing team of Ed Smalle and Jerry Macy.

"Here We Are" (1929)

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Snake Hips

"The terraced minstrel show set with its lustrous expanse of gold and silver drapes, its fourteen huge jeweled sunbursts, its mammoth spreading fans in red, green and gold, all in a blaze of perfect lighting, is, perhaps, the most notable of the sets and when it is populated by 150 screen personalities all in brilliant and gorgeous costumes, the picture is beyond description."

So described a 1930 newspaper advance publicity placement for Fox's "Happy Days." Once I got past the beautifully descriptive prose, it occurred to me that I hadn't previously thought of the film as originally containing color sequences, but the thought was hugely appealing --- especially when combined with envisioning how the film might have looked upon it's premiere at New York City's Roxy Theater, where it was screened in the 70mm Fox Grandeur wide-screen process as well. Were this true, it's well neigh impossible to imagine the sensory overload that would have greeted 1930 audiences attending that most glorious of a cinema palaces and one which would be demolished after a mere thirty years of life: Color, wide-screen and Fox's unparalleled (in my opinion) Movietone sound process bathing each of the 5,920 upholstered seats in sight, sound and color. Overly dramatic I know, but not far from an early sound film buff's notion of heaven.

With the Roxy Theater long gone (it's entrance now marked by a T.G.I. Friday's) and "Happy Days" barely surviving in openly traded and sold 98th generation dupes --- a mottled, tattered, bleached, garbled and truncated shadow of its former self --- it's no small wonder the film is all but sneered at when written about, and surprisingly, it's even scoffed at by the only fan base it could possibly claim at this late date, that being the legions of Will Rogers' admirers. The film's parent studio apparently didn't think enough of it (or at all) to include it in two DVD boxed sets of Rogers' sound films and that's probably just as well considering the likelihood that the Rogers scenes would simply be extracted from the body of the film and included as an "extra" with little or no explanation.

But, I stray. Did "Happy Days" originally contain color sequences? The introductory paragraph certainly goes out of it's way to suggest so. Then too, not all --- but some period "reviews" for the film (of the variety written by theater owners who pre-screened prints before booking) seem to solidify the press campaign's claim by saying, merely, "Some of the scenes are in Technicolor." Well, perhaps not Technicolor --- but another color process? So, until anyone can offer up real proof pointing one way or the other, we can't be certain.

One of the film's most striking musical and tuneful sequences, in pastel hues or not, is "Snake Hips," which was promoted in newspapers by asking: "Do snakes have hips or not?" and then inviting them to see for themselves in a verbal elbow-nudge fashion.

Starkly designed with two gigantic curled cobras on either side of the set --- with bodies and heads rising and curling upwards to meet in the center forming an exotic proscenium arch, the beauty of the number's design and the shimmering metallic costumes are all but impossible to appreciate or even clearly ascertain in circulating dupes, which reduces individual dancers into undulating blobs without clear face or figure. The film's soundtrack has suffered right along with the visual elements too, and gone are the original Movietone crystalline highs and deep, warm and rich bass notes. Further assault comes in the form of no less than two cuts within the sequence, one of which deletes Sharon Lynn's entire vocalization of the song's chorus. With that warning in mind, and to oblige a reader request, here then is an audio reference for "Snake Hips" in the form it can be found today. No amount of mucking about with audio enhancement can undo decades of damage, but weak as this is it's actually an improvement upon the original source material!

"Snake Hips" (1930)

Scattered and wildly incomplete though surviving examples of early radio are, every once in a great while something comes along that almost effortlessly sweeps away volumes of dry written documentation simply by allowing us the ability to hear for ourselves, and experience something that no amount of prose --- however skillful --- can hope to emulate.


One Tuesday evening in May of 1928, an engineer working at the Thomas Edison Laboratory & Phonograph Works in New Jersey (pictured left) was busily testing a new recording process that would allow for long-playing discs. Seeking a continuous source of recordable material as opposed to recordings that would have to be changed every few minutes, the engineer decided to utilize a radio set in his workroom and at 8PM, he tuned into radio station WEAF, (which was carrying programming from NBC) and began his test recording, which lasted 18 minutes.

When finished, he filed the disc away with some jotted notes on the recording process and results, without knowing that some seventy-five years later his experiment would be rediscovered and that what he captured --- quite without thought as to posterity, would be the earliest known over-the-air recording of a live broadcast and, as it turns out, a broadcast consisting of popular music.

An entry in the NBC "Eveready Hour," a sponsored anthology/variety program that offered a diverse selection of dramatic, musical and comedy offerings, the captured fragment of entertainment and technological history is listed in the radio guide from that date only in the briefest of forms, without detail as to scheduled artist or theme. From the surviving broadcast itself, we learn that the setting is that of a night-club, and that the featured singer is one Martha Copeland, about whom I could discover nothing further. In researching various radio listings for the Eveready Hour from that same week and month, however, I think I can tentatively conclude that the accompanying vocal group that backs Copeland is The Hall Johnson Choir (a famous choral group of the day that was featured in a variety of entertainment mediums, including --- most notably, the 1929 Bessie Smith two-reeler "St. Louis Blues") and that it's probable that the orchestra was under the direction of Nathaniel Shilkret.

In the following two brief extracts of somewhat reduced quality from the full recording, Miss Copeland puts over a wonderful rendition of the pop standard "I Ain't Got Nobody" (including a disorienting shout of "everybody rock!" during the song) and then, a stirring vocalization of "The St. Louis Blues," performed here in an arrangement that foretells the ultimate Bessie Smith version that would arrive the following year, replete with similar haunting vocal backing by The Hall Johnson Choir.

"The Eveready Hour" (1928) Excerpt 1

"The Eveready Hour" (1928) Excerpt 2

Interested readers should make haste for the home page of the public-radio broadcast that first premiered this recording in 2003, "Thomas Edison's Attic," which is maintained by Edison recording historian supreme, Jerry Fabris. Displaying an unparalleled passion, knowledge and respect for Edison recording artists and their product, Mr. Fabris is as unique a gem as could be hoped for in this incredibly overlooked and underestimated niche of American popular music history. The material he broadcasts, originating directly from the original medium of cylinder or disc, is of astounding quality and variety, and guaranteed to cause any listener to rethink any existing notions they may have about early sound recording. With that in mind, please visit: http://wfmu.org/playlists/TE

Somehow or other, I've not yet managed to see D.W. Griffith's "Lady of the Pavements," a 1929 United Artists release that arrived on screens with a synchronized music and sound effects score and at least one dialogue sequence. Happily, the film survives today (although without it's sound elements) and I've heard that at least in some screenings, the film's lilting theme song ("Where Is the Song of Songs For Me?") the tune is given its due either by interpolation into the live piano accompaniment or by the playing of the film's star, Lupe Velez's 78rpm recording released in conjunction with the film's premiere. Either way, it's an admirable effort to try to correct damage wrought by time and neglect and one I applaud. In tribute to both the film and those who still present it, here's two renditions of the theme song. The first by Lupe Velez --- touching, skilled and exotic, and the second by vocalist Franklyn Baur, clear, resonant and timeless.

"Where Is the Song of Songs for Me?" (1929) Velez

"Where Is the Song of Songs for Me?" (1929) Baur


In a much lighter vein, I introduce vocalist Sid Garry, who recorded for a mind boggling array of "dime store" record labels throughout the 1920's --- and possibly prior and beyond, as concise information on his career hasn't been easy to pin down. What I do know is that no matter the record label he's encountered on --- Banner, Cameo, Domino, Perfect, Regal, Romeo, etc. to name but a few --- or no matter what name he used ("Al Foster" was a common alias), his voice and style is as unique and immediately identifiable as a thumb print... or blood stain. Adding a whole new dimension to the old descriptive term "he sings with a tear in his voice," Sid Garry has been delighting me for years by almost always seeming to be on the verge of weeping as he sings, and by a style of pronunciation and inflection that's his and his alone. I'd love to know more of Mr. Garry (or Mr. Foster,) so if any reader should have additional information, I urge you to share it!.

For the uninitiated, here's two familiar standards of the late 1920's as I suspect you've never heard them performed before. Typically, Mr. Garry either selected or was wisely called upon to vocalize tunes of an emotional or sentimental nature, and these two melodies, "Mean To Me" and "Tip Toe thru the Tulips" are prime Sid Garry. (Pictured right, Mr. Garry/Foster, himself.)

"Mean to Me" (1929)

"Tip Toe thru the Tulips" (1929)


Closing out this post, two additional requests that I'm pleased to be able to meet. In relation to my earlier posts regarding The Duncan Sisters, I was reminded that I overlooked one of their finest recordings, "Dawning" of 1927 --- and I'm glad this oversight was mentioned. A simple melody, the theme of which dwells upon dawn, early morning, mother's arms, yawning babies, and the rooster's call to awaken, it's comfort food of the musical sort that effortlessly stirs memories of childhood and home --- our first home --- that dwells within all of us, somewhere. As described in the Victor record ad at the left, the Duncan Sisters "each has a piano to accompany her --- that is, there are two pianos, while Vivian plays the uke. Against this background, they sing two of the charmingest ditties." The flip side tune, "Baby Feet Go Pitter Patter" is just a wee bit too charming, even for me. "Dawning," however, is magnificent and just charming enough.

"Dawning" (1927)

Lastly, for a flash finish, a high spirited medley of selections from the 1930 United Artists film "Puttin' on the Ritz," consisting of "With You," "There's Danger In Your Eyes Cherie" and of course the seemingly indestructible title tune. Of passing interest, in the ad below, note that the credit listings for a coming attraction, "Second Wife," has the odd billing "The New Lila Lee" for the extraordinarily prolific and skilled actress. This "new" tag, although of questionable taste, refers to the fact that the actress had underwent what amounts to a nervous breakdown (highly publicized too) following a grueling stretch of work in film upon film, in support of the likes of Texas Guinan in 1928, Sophie Tucker in 1929 and Lon Chaney in 1930 --- just to name a few. This "new" billing is an idea before its time, although if in use today it would likely have to read: "The Newest New, Really New, New as Today, _________." Ah, just as well it hasn't been borrowed, I suppose!

Medley - "Puttin' on the Ritz" (1930)

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Blurred Reproduction: A Musical Assortment

A variety of items, and a melancholy entry to begin with...

In 1946, while silent and early-talkie star Olive Borden was scrubbing the floors of the "Sunshine Mission For Women" in the heart of Los Angeles' skid row, her health swiftly fading and wealth long gone, shunned by the studios that were but a short distance away, I wonder if she would have found some solace in knowing that a theater in Edwardsville, Illinois was still running her films?

In what looks to have been the forerunner of the modern "revival house," --- or maybe just a small theater stuck in some sort of odd self-imposed time warp, the Widley Theater of Edwardsville ("Quality Supreme") was running films of an earlier day in a strangely matter-of-fact way, avoiding any reference that might indicate the films offered as being twenty years old and silent at that! Indeed, the Widley proudly announces that the "New Gratian Orchestra Organ" is being manned by Professor Herzwurm, indicating a vested interest in silent photoplays, and the print ad for Miss Borden's 1926 film, "Yellow Fingers," makes no mention of the film's vintage and instead heralds Borden as the "New Emotional Star." All very odd, and certainly ironic, given the real-life drama being enacted at precisely the same time in a seedy Los Angeles building. (See Note at bottom of this post.)


At the time "Half Marriage" (RKO-Pathe) was produced in 1929, Borden's future was considerably brighter --- although there had already been signs of trouble ahead. Battles with her studio, unreasonable salary demands, and a highly extravagant lifestyle all initiated her initial fall from grace --- bad timing for any actress at the close of the silent era, and even worse for the skittish, unreliable Borden. "Half Marriage" isn't better or worse than many other films turned out that year --- it's well produced, technically more than sufficient (it's exceptionally well recorded and scored too), but it's an uncomfortable film to watch because it becomes clear something isn't quite right with Borden. Overly joyous and manic in scenes calling for only moderate cheerfulness, awkward and jerky in her movements, almost anorexic by today's standards and certainly by 1929's, she seems well under the influence of something. All the more a pity is that she's absolutely a stunner, the camera loves her (from any angle) and her voice is melodic and expressive. All for naught, however. A few more films, increasingly further and further down the poverty row studio ladder rungs, and that was that.

Although the haunting tune "Girl of My Dreams" dates from 1928, it figures prominently in the background scoring for "Girl of My Dreams," and once you've heard it played against some of Borden's best scenes in the picture, it's impossible to again hear the tune without thinking of that lovely, fragile figure with the large haunted eyes. Ethereal, sad and chilling --- and even more so in this 1928 vocal rendition by Gene Austin, with pipe organ musical accompaniment.

"Girl of My Dreams" (1928)



There was nothing but frivolity to be found however, in the 1930 Paramount film "Let's Go Native," one of those near-perfect musical comedies that the studio made between 1929 and 1930 which survives complete and intact, but is the victim of litigation, attitude, ignorance and garden variety red tape that combine to keep the film from view. If you're familiar with 1932's "Million Dollar Legs" or the early Marx Brothers films, and can mentally combine that irreverent aura with a heavy dose of nearly hallucinatory surreal visual and spoken humor, then you might have a slight idea of what "Let's Go Native" offers --- if it were given the chance, that is.

One of the film's brightest musical moments is a brutal send-up of theme-songs and movie love-songs in general, "It Seems To Be Spring," in which --- following an introductory vocalization by Jeanette MacDonald, cuts to a montage of nature in the throes of spring-time abandon at its most saccharine: babbling brooks, blossoming flowers, twittering birds, baby rabbits and ducklings, and then, two bears newly out of hibernation (enacted by costumed humans) dancing and prancing about flowering fields in adoration of one another and Spring itself. As a parody-within-a-parody, it's simply an ultimate moment in the history of the screen musical of the type there wasn't enough of: the genre laughing at itself, gently and lovingly.

"It Seems to Be Spring" (1930) Waring's Pennsylvanians



Odd moments are also to be found in the initial film released by the then newly formed RKO conglomeration, 1929's "Street Girl." A peculiarly joyless and bleak film despite the competent cast, even the film's theme song, the peppy "Lovable and Sweet" becomes a thing of dread by the fourth or fifth time it's heard, and Betty Compson's impossible vaguely European put-on accent is a trial from the get-go. Indeed, the film's advertising slogan, "See Her... Hear Her... Love Her," seems less of an invitation than a demand and as a whole, it's a cold little film that barely hints at the splendid escapist spectacle that "Rio Rita" would offer just a few months later.

In one of those all-too-infrequent glimpses into how these early sound films may have looked and sounded to attending audiences, the review at the left, by "Wood Soanes," ruefully notes that "less than fifty per cent of the conversation was intelligible," and largely yawns at the whole film, but concludes that his opinion might have been influenced by the "blurred reproduction." A skilled writer, but grasping for descriptive technical film terms that barely existed in common vocabulary at the time. A window in time.

"Street Girl," like many sound-on-film productions was made available to theaters in a sound-on-disc format, and the following extract is one of the film's oddest moments. Quite out of nowhere, in a night-club setting (which I suppose was reason enough for the presentation of a musical number in any 1929 film,) comes "Broken Up Tune," danced and sung by Doris Eaton (sister to both choreographer Pearl Eaton, and musical stage and screen actress Mary Eaton) who is accompanied by Gus Arnheim & His Orchestra. Snappy at first, the number soon lives up to its title, becoming a discordant mix that must have seemed either very modern or very awful to audiences of that day and, I daresay, of this day too.

"Broken Up Tune" (1929) Doris Eaton, Gus Arnheim & His Orchestra

Lingering at RKO a bit longer, 1929's "Tanned Legs" is one of those early musicals that somehow managed to survive looking and sounding better than any film of that vintage usually does, and the effect is startling simply because it's not what we're used to. No need to wish for closed-captioning here to understand a muddy, garbled soundtrack (1930's "Sunny" has closed captions, appropriately and oddly enough) or to strain eyes in an effort to ascertain an actor from the printed draperies behind them. No, "Tanned Legs"... and "The Vagabond Lover" too, for that matter, both seem to have been lovingly tended to over the decades --- although why, exactly, remains unclear. "Tanned Legs" was loaded to the hilt with songs, most of them merely so-so, and the one that emerged as the hit was "You're Responsible," which was warbled by a saucy, beret clad Ann Pennington to her long-in-the-tooth beau, Allen Kearns. Here's Johnny Johnson & His Orchestra giving it the once over for the curious among those present.

"You're Responsible" (1929)

Perhaps not the best way to advertise a new film, the ad at the right warned potential audiences that "The Cuckoos is a long picture," and because of the length, the accompanying program would be limited to one cartoon. I doubt this would deter fans of the team of Wheeler & Woolsey, and those fans weren't in short supply either at the time. (Interestingly, only a few instances in advertising have cropped up in which a film of the period prompted theater owners to caution readers about the running time. The running time of "Rio Rita" was often cited in ads, as was "Noah's Ark" --- which often carried a disclaimer mentioning the film's "extreme length" as the cause for limited daily shows.)

While you're listening to an excellent recording of one of the film's two "big" song hits, "Dancing the Devil Away" (which actually originated in the 1927 Broadway production "Lucky," but don't tell anyone) you may want to read (below) a period article detailing a fascinating bit of lost history and clever marketing cross promotion for "The Cuckoos." Oh, what would I give to hear a transcription of this radio broadcast!


"Dancing the Devil Away" (1930) Arden & Ohman



We're extraordinarily fortunate to have Universal's 1930 "King of Jazz" with us today in any format, no less in the perfectly serviceable albeit somewhat imperfect version that made its debut on commercial VHS ages ago. The mammoth, awesome and incredibly impressive all-Technicolor revue's current absence from DVD can only suggest it's being held in reserve (ho-ho!) for a forthcoming boxed set of early sound landmark Universal Studios musical treasures that will include "Show Boat," "Broadway" and perhaps "Melody Lane" too. Then again, it might some day be available on a bare-bones $9.99 disc tossed onto the market when there's nothing left for the studio to toss. Then again, and in reality, probably not not in any form --- although I'd sorely love to be proven wrong, and soon.

Investing some time, research and yes... even finances, could bring forth "King of Jazz" in all it's original splendor to DVD --- including, as supplementary material all manner of advertising ephemera, trailers, the 1932 re-release version and surviving audio for sequences that no longer exist on film. (The Universal/MCA version looks beautiful in spots, but it's incomplete and the order in which scenes are presented are at odds with the original release version.) Alas, while there's still a quick no-brainer buck to be made by a Director's Cut Special Two-Disc Edition of (insert schlock film title here) that played for two weeks in your local multiplex, well --- the prognosis isn't cheerful.

What is cheerful however, (and you may strike me for that segue) is an exceptionally fine vocal rendition of the film's longest lasting hit, "Happy Days" --- which has turned up since 1930 in the most unexpected of places on CD's, television shows, and films --- indeed, almost everywhere except in the film it first sprang from. Recorded in October of 1930 by the vocal group, The Revelers, here's harmony unleashed!

"Happy Feet" (1930) The Revelers

Also offered is what may well be the eeriest, most darned accurate modern-day (providing the mid-1980's can still be considered modern?) re-creation of the film's "A Bench in the Park" number. It's performed by a remarkable group of part-time musicians that hailed from the Netherlands (Breda, Noord Brabant, I believe) who may or may not still be meeting to perform miracles such as this. If you think this is good, you can't imagine the effect of having heard this performed live, which made it all the more delightfully time-warpish an experience.

"A Bench in the Park" - Re-Creation



To close out this post, two melodies that by now should be familiar to readers of these pages --- but included here because of their unique rendition and/or presentation on 78rpm disc.

The first, "Singing in the Bathtub" from WB's 1929 All-Technicolor (a term I can now use with confidence) revue, "The Show of Shows" --- performed by the singing team of Edward Smalle (another familiar name to you perhaps?) and Jerry Macy --- about whom I know little. The tune is presented in what amounts to a miniature vaudeville turn, replete with gags and puns sure to induce more than one groan, but it's still an endearing little recording because the two vocalists seem to be having such a good time performing it. Note the curious use of the Canadian National Anthem as part of one sound gag, indicating there may have been more than one version recorded --- although I could only find release notes for one.



"Singing in the Bathtub" (1930) Smalle & Macy


And, to exit you out the door into the clear night air --- well, air at any rate, as plaintive and simple a rendition of "I'm Following You" from the 1929 Duncan Sisters MGM film "It's A Great Life" as I've ever encountered. For those that enjoyed the musical offerings in the earlier "Melody Native" post, you'll enjoy this especially. Recorded on the Champion label in February of 1930, here are the South Sea Serenaders doing what they do best.

"I'm Following You" (1930)

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Note: Since first publishing this post, the opening piece on Olive Borden and the bizarre exhibition of her silent film in a 1946 theater just didn't set well with me. Returning to the newspaper files to try and find out more about this twilight zone-like theater, I made a shameful discovery. Included within the pages of a 1946 newspaper was, for no particular reason, two pages of a 1926 newspaper... obviously the original and correct source and date of the ad. Although this discovery leaves the story with far less of a dramatic twist, I'm leaving the post intact if only to point up the fact of how dangerously easy it is to re-write film history, almost at whim, even when done in innocent error. In a way, I'm relieved to learn that everything was as it should have been in 1946, for better or worse.

Go Along Bad Times

On February 26th of 1943, Louella Parson's syndicated Hollywood column included a portion of a note sent to her by a serviceman stationed somewhere in the Pacific.

The writer was Private William R. Goewy, aged 24, who'd been at Pearl Harbor when the December 7th attack occurred. The note said, in part, "Today we saw Joe E. Brown in this desolate spot. He is the only movie star I have seen since the war started and it was really great to see a human being from the States. Do you know a Johnny Marvin of Hollywood? He was with Joe E., and is tops. He says he came here to make the boys laugh and we sure did all the time he was here."

Although Parsons didn't say so, if she didn't personally know a Johnny Marvin of Hollywood, then she surely did --- at least, remember him and likely the image that would have come to mind would have been of a slickly groomed fellow in an impeccable tuxedo, accompanied by a ukulele or guitar, who sang in a radiant, ringing voice the songs of another day and time that, by the darkest days of 1943 would have seemed so unreal and distant as to be a dream remembered.

Two months later, news syndicate wire services would carry an article in which Johnny Marvin was given voice. Not the voice of the former 1920's entertainment icon though, but of a desperate man making an impassioned and worthy plea: "If the folks at home only realized how starved our boys are out there for songs and other entertainment, they'd sure do much more about it than they are doing. Soldiers have been able to develop little of their own entertainment in camps... Weather conditions are hard on the few musical instruments they have, mostly guitars and fiddles. Strings, which deteriorate rapidly, would be highly welcome wartime contributions."

In the company of his one time fellow Warner Brothers and Vitaphone film star Joe E. Brown, Marvin would travel 14,000 miles by plane, presenting 180 shows. They performed whenever they arrived at their destination, day or night. "We staged shows for groups as large as 12,000 and we trudged across battlefields still strewn with bodies --- to entertain little groups of American boys in their outposts. But, it was the tears that came to the eyes of the boys in the hospitals that proved how much just a little bit of entertainment would please them."

The article later mentions that Johnny Marvin became ill while traveling through New Zealand, prompting a reluctant return to Hollywood. Whether connected to this illness or not, the performer would pass away a few days before Christmas the following year, 1944 --- leaving this world too soon to see the end of the conflict that troubled him so, or to see the thousands of men and women whom he entertained in hellish places return home to what was hoped would be a better world, a world closer to the one Marvin first achieved fame in.

It's 1927 and Johnny Marvin's long years spent in vaudeville and before the microphone have elevated him to musical stardom. A year before he scored as a feature performer in the Broadway musical "Honeymoon Lane," and his recording career continues to blossom as a soloist and vocalist for bands of the day. A current song hit is "Me and My Shadow," and while a somewhat creepy, dirge-like rendition by Whispering Jack Smith would prove the best-selling version, it's Marvin's rendition (for Nat Shilkret & His Orchestra) that puts life into the tune. It's resplendent with cheerful optimism, suggesting that the loneliness spoken of in the tune is only temporary at best --- so vastly different from the morose and forlorn Smith rendition!

"Me and My Shadow" (1927)

1927 would also be the year in which Marvin was approached by Warner Brothers & Vitaphone to appear in a one reel recorded vaudeville performance that was exceptionally well received, and one which often accompanied the prestigious and technically superb Warner Bros. synchronized comedy of the Great War, "The Better 'Ole."

Two excerpts from Johnny Marvin's premiere Vitaphone performance, in which he performs "A Little Music in the Moonlight" and "Deed I Do."

"A Little Music in the Moonlight" (1927) Vitaphone Disc Excerpt

"'Deed I Do" (1927) Vitaphone Disc Excerpt


When Marvin was called upon to pair with another vocalist for a recording, which he frequently was, the result was always satisfying. Marvin never battled for prominence nor dissolved into the background in these recordings --- he'd simply meld with whomever he was with, while still retaining his identity.

Two of the nicest duo recordings follow. The first, from 1927, has Marvin with female vocalist Aileen Stanley (who's pairings with Billy Murray are mentioned in an earlier post,) and their handling of the tune "Under the Moon," is the sort of lyrical, lightly comedic melody that could have only come from the heart of the decade it was recorded in.

"Under the Moon" (1927) Stanley & Marvin

Next, he paired with Ed Smalle (an incredibly versatile vocalist in his own right) to cover the theme song of the Paramount film "The Shopworn Angel," a silent film that had been fitted out with a synchronized musical score and tagged on talking sequence when it became obvious that synchronized films, if not thought to be a permanent fixture, at least certainly made more money than their silent counterparts. The tune, "A Precious Little Thing Called Love," was one of the bigger musical hits of the year, widely recorded and still sometimes even performed today --- although not without usually seeming a bit absurd, if not slightly grotesque, when uprooted from the day in which it was first heard.

"A Precious Little Thing Called Love" (1929) Mavin & Smalle

1929 would prove to be one of Marvin's busiest and most prolific years, in which he combined film appearances with vaudeville, recordings and a special engagement with the Kit Kat Club in London on May 14th of that year, as indicated in the promo below and to the left, which mentioned Marvin's transatlantic crossing on the S.S. Leviathan.

The Kit Kat Club featured a tight, fine orchestra under the direction of Alan Selby, as indicated by this 1928 recording in which it's easy to envision how Johnny Marvin's vocalizations might have fit in.

"Why Should I Feel Lonely?" (1928)

As was often the case, the boom in film musicals provided a wealth of material for performers and recording artists, and Johnny Marvin would benefit as much as anyone. Although he'd never become closely identified with any one particular tune from a musical film, his recordings of melodies from films were always featured front and center in Victor print advertisements, as well they should have been. Two highly representative recordings from Metro's "The Hollywood Revue" are offered next, the languid "Orange Blossom Time" and the seemingly inescapable "Singing in the Rain," the rendition here of which is given a neat twist by the inclusion of The Brox Sisters (who were featured in the film) on the vocal refrain.

"Orange Blossom Time" (1929)

"Singin' in the Rain" (1929) Marvin & Brox Sisters


By the late October of 1929 recording date of the next and final tune, time and tide had shifted --- at first imperceptibly, but setting off events that would serve to effectively seal off the 1920's permanently from the decade, and decades that followed. Ironically titled "Happy Days Are Here Again," and a tune which took on a life of its own far removed from its original source, it was first presented in the Metro film musical "Chasing Rainbows" as part of a show-within-a-show sequence set at the end of the First World War --- making its typical connection with the carefree 1920's even more ironic and misplaced.

"Happy Days Are Here Again" (1929) Johnny Marvin

Johnny Marvin would continue to perform on radio and in vaudeville for a good portion of the 1930's, at which point he left his wing-tipped collar "crooner" image behind forever, morphing into a country-western persona nurtured by his early Oklahoma upbringing. Although some Internet database sources are dramatically chronologically muddled (claiming Marvin came out of retirement in 1929 to become a singing cowboy,) it could well be that, as stated, he had indeed suffered a serious financial loss in the stock market crash. What we do know for a fact, however, is that by the 1940's the fellow who entertained troops in far flung outposts of the Pacific and prompted a soldier to write to Louella Parsons asking if she had ever heard of him, was as far removed a man from tuxedos, jazz, and one-reel synchronized musical vaudeville performances as could be, and apparently with nary a regret nor with a need to either.

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Somewhere East of Catalina

Those who were visiting Catalina Island, just off the California coast, in early Autumn of 1928 likely wouldn't have been much surprised to see the assembled First National cast and crew as it was a frequently used locale for filming. However, they surely would have been intrigued by what looked to be a flotilla of queer ships that had, somehow, been plucked from far distant harbors and tossed into the waters alongside the Catalina isle isthmus.

Standing out among the odd assortment of vessels was the bedraggled flagship of this makeshift fleet, the time-worn but still graceful Southern Cross, said to have been the personal yacht of the late King of Belgium, Leopold. Less easily identifiable except to former sailors and sea men was an old tramp steamer that was destined to be wrecked for the film's climax, a flat barge used exclusively for the cameras and lights, three powerful speed boats that darted back and forth between the vessels and acted as taxi-boats between the location and San Pedro and, lazily bobbing up and down among everything were fourteen Asian sampans.

If the lineage, correct name and identification of the vessels were a matter for debate among curious onlookers, the star of the film that was in production could have easily rattled it all off --- and what's more, probably would have enjoyed doing so immensely.

Richard Barthelmess loved the sea, loved boats and loved everything having to do with either, so I can't help but feel he was having the time of his life during those days off Catalina Island in September of 1928. Boats and vigorous activity everywhere about him, the sight and scent of the ocean, the work on a film he played a key part in developing, and at last his personal life was as perfect as he dared hope for. A troubled marriage and resultant divorce was behind him, and he'd since found a partner whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life with --- and, as it turned out, he did.

With an original story by W. Scott Darling, a screenplay by Bradley King and the direction of John Francis Dillon, "Scarlet Seas" began production in late 1928 and despite the location shooting, elaborate technical effects and an almost non-stop array of action sequences, the film would be ready for exhibition in just under four months --- and that included the composition and recording of a Vitaphone music and effects soundtrack.

By all account, the film was a swiftly paced, thrill-filled, small-scale contemporary epic of a hero sailor, cut-throat sea-going ruffians and thieves, a dance-hall prostitute with a heart of gold, and an imperiled and imprisoned pastor and his virginal daughter. With a nationwide release that coincided with the Christmas and New Year holidays of 1928, the film was exceptionally well attended by adults and children alike and proved so popular that it could be found being booked into theaters as late as September of 1930 --- a notable feat for a silent film with a synchronized soundtrack!

As you may have guessed by now, "Scarlet Seas" is a lost film --- a double loss really, as it not only seems to have been an absolute corker of a film that would boast the best of the worlds of silent and sound cinema, but it's also probably a film that Barthelmess would have much wanted to survive long past his career and life. Given that Richard Barthelmess died in 1963, it's disturbing to realize that chances are that as he was entering his final decade of life, the film elements for "Scarlet Seas" were busily destroying themselves, aided by neglect and profound lack of interest from the company that owned it.

Although it's impossible to accurately evaluate or describe a film we can't see, a combination of surviving elements, including a set of original Vitaphone sound discs in my collection, demands we at least try.

"Scarlet Seas" (1928) Excerpt 1

Excerpt 1: Following the main credits, the film opens with the title card: "Apia --- East of Suez." Apia, ghastly and ghostly. A seaport of shadows and weird blinking lights --- of humming guitars and brown maidens with flowered hair.

We're introduced to tramp sailor Steve Donkin (Barthelmess), as he arrives in the port of Apia --- a cesspool of failed existence. A man young in calendar years, but old in life's drab shadows. A wandering, godless man.

He enters the waterfront saloon --- a rollicking, ribald and ramshackle building held together by promises. There, amidst the din of drunken laughter and a resident band that hasn't heard nor learnt any new melodies since 1919's "Dardanella" swept the globe, he focuses on Rose (Compson) --- blond, brittle, hardened by life but, like Steve, not without the faint hope of something better. Their eyes meet, they're drawn to one another and Steve vows to conquest and rescue this pathetic woman, and in doing so, perhaps redeem himself too. (End of Excerpt 1)

Monkey shines are cut short by an incredibly violent fight spearheaded by a saloon thug who'd been sizing up Steve and felt threatened, although unsure why --- which infuriates him all the more. In the process of the fight, the saloon is all but wrecked --- and Rose is knocked unconscious, but Steve manages to fend off certain death and escape to his small ship, with Rose in tow --- and they put out to sea.

"Scarlet Seas" (1928) Excerpt 2

Excerpt 2: Some hours later, Rose awakens to the mournful sound of a sea shanty being played on a concertina. At first disoriented, she gathers together her shred of a dress, and pulls up herself onto deck, to see that the musician is Steve, battered and bruised but when he sees her, he smiles --- at first sheepishly ("How Dry I Am") and then broadly, for the first time since they've met. The film's "theme song" is, quite appropriately, introduced here.

Once again, quiet contemplation and flirtation is interrupted --- not by fists and broken bottles this time, but by darkening skies and gathering wind that, in but a moment is heavily upon the aged and frail wooden vessel. Ill equipped and manned by an imperfect crew, the ship begins to founder --- the sails being torn apart by the wind. (End of Excerpt 2)

Following a series of disastrous events aboard the ship that result in it being accidentally set ablaze, Rose is thrown into the sea --- and Steve follows suit of his own accord, and in good time too for the ship soon slips beneath the waves, and with it the crew. Hauling themselves into a surviving lone rowboat tossed from the ship, Rose and Steve manage to survive the storm --- and are the only ones from the ship to do so.

"Scarlet Seas" (1928) Excerpt 3

Excerpt 3: Exhausted they drift to sleep, but awaken to find themselves in new peril. On a dead calm and windless sea, with the sun ablaze and unrelenting in a cloudless sky --- they drift aimlessly, hungry, parched, growing increasingly desperate yet ultimately resigned to what they feel sure is a cruel death. (End of Excerpt 3)

Just when hope seems all but lost, a puff of wind --- clouds form slowly then quicker, and at last it rains and they're spared, for now, from their worst fear. Night arrives, and with it fog -- but with thirst quenched and minds cleared, they vow to pull out of this somehow, and when they do, to make one another their own. Then, almost miraculously, a ghostly vision emerges from the mist --- the prow of a ship! They call and signal as best they can, but no voices come in return --- no heads peer over the ship's rail --- as the hulk looms closer and closer. Grabbing hold of nets and ropes that hang from the side of the ship like a shroud, Steve pulls him and Rose aboard onto the top deck.

"Scarlet Seas" (1928) Excerpt 4

Excerpt 4: Their eyes meet a series of horrible, ghastly visions: A deck littered with dead, murdered and mangled bodies --- the corpses of the ship's slain crew hung from masts like game pheasants. A massacre, but enacted by whom? And, were the murderers still aboard? The scent of cooked food rising from below deck nearly sends Steve and Rose insane, but dare they make their presence known? Muffled laughter and oaths from below are heard --- and Rose recognizes the voices as belonging to the familiar ruffians and dregs of Apia. Risking everything, she and Steve climb below deck, where they're seen through the drunken haze of the thugs, and recognized --- and, incredibly, warmly welcomed --- as all thoughts of revenge have been tempered with food and alcohol. Rose's survival mode kicks in and she warms up to the leader, reverting to the audacious flirt she was when Steve first met her ("Dardanella," used as a leitmotif for Rose, is heard again here.) (End of Excerpt 4)

Although Steve's trust in Rose is shattered, another pressing situation arises. Steve is made aware of two passengers who escaped slaughter, a pastor and his daughter (Loretta Young) who are privy to the whereabouts aboard ship of a cache of pearls. It is the intention of the pirates to keep them alive until they find the loot, and then to do away with them and, as Steve realizes, both he and Rose too.

Steve is soon assured by Rose that her loyalties are still his alone and learns that she had, in fact, saved their life by feigning disdain for Steve and becoming her old self again for the benefit of the scoundrels. Planning --- plotting --- an idea! As the ship nears a port, Steve's scheme is put into motion with the help of Rose and the two other survivors, and --- following a carefully choreographed action & fight sequence, our wayward hero manages to win the day by sheer luck and pluck.

"Scarlet Seas" (1928) Excerpt 5

Excerpt 5: Extreme good fortune is bestowed with the arrival of a British ship that spots the vessel and survivors, and approaches to carry the four (and the pearls) to safety. Love's old promise is renewed between Steve and Rose. Safely aboard the rescue ship, as his beaming daughter looks on, the grateful pastor suggests that the performance of a ceremony of marriage is the least he can do in return. Close up of Steve and Rose embracing --- Fade Out, The End.

And there we leave, as last they were seen in theaters during Christmas of 1928, "a man who rocked the Godhead, a man who sneered at the law and laughed at decency, and a girl whose sum total of life was cheaper still, both pounded out by a romance that is both thrilling and admirable."

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