Sinners and Saints

There's something oddly beautiful about this portion of a surviving poster for the 1928 First National silent comedy "Vamping Venus," isn't there? In fact, I can't look at it without feeling that the apparent damage to this fragile artifact (the film itself is believed lost) is somehow perfectly in keeping with the film's primary setting of ancient Greece --- turning this bit of wonderful 1928 artwork into something more akin to a Pompeian wall mural than the original artist could have ever possibly intended or envisioned.

Released in mid-1928 and still being booked across the country as late as May of 1929, First National's silent and otherwise un-synchronized "Vamping Venus" was described rather thinly and thus in one contemporary publicity placement:

"'Vamping Venus' opens in New York of today and jumps back to ancient Greece, taking the characters in the modern sequences and showing them as mortals and immortals of the olden days. Charlie Murray, who plays a New York politician, becomes the political dictator of Greece. Louise Fazenda, who plays his nagging wife, is Circe, the enchantress, in the Grecian scenes. Thelma Todd is a cabaret dancer in New York and becomes Venus. Russ Powell, the cabaret proprietor, becomes Bacchus. Joe Bonomo, the strongman in the cabaret, is Hercules. Spec O'Donnell, a messenger boy, becomes Mercury, and other characters take like parts."

"The comedy situations in such a story are unlimited, and the fun riots merrily throughout the picture. It is a natural spot for Murray and Miss Fazenda, famed as fun makers for the screen, and both take advantage of every situation that gives cause for mirth. Directed by Eddie Cline, it's from an original story by Bernard McConville, and was adapted for the screen by Howard J. Green. While humor predominates, the picture boasts an artistic background seldom seen in a comedy. There are magnificent sets, hundreds of players and a story that holds interest from start to finish."

From the AFI catalogue description, we're able to add some detail and coloring to the above framework --- serving to make an already interesting concept (so ripe for sight gags!) and damn near perfect cast seem even more a loss:

"Irish American Michael Cassidy (Murray) sneaks out one evening to join his buddies at their annual dinner at the Silver Spoon night club. There, he is knocked unconscious by Simonides (Bonomo,) strongman in a troupe of performers, who resents Cassidy's flirting with Madame Vanezlos (Todd,) another member of the troupe. Cassidy dreams of himself as King of Ireland, cavorting in ancient Greece among the gods and goddesses: Venus, Circe and Hercules. In time, he becomes ruler of the country by introducing many marvels of modern machinery. Then, a rebellion is started against Cassidy and his buzzers, telephones, tanks, and machine guns. In the midst of the battle, Cassidy sees Hercules abducting Venus, and rescues her with the aid of his troops. Cassidy regains consciousness and realizes it was all a dream."

The dream-like quality of the comedy surely bordered on the hallucinatory when viewed in a Havre, Montana theater in March of 1929 as advertised to the right. In addition to "Vamping Venus" and a Paramount newsreel, audiences were treated to a "Tiffany Color Classic," and "The Health Twins at Work," a one-reel animation effort that seems to have been one off entry first distributed to theaters in April of 1929 when that month was tagged "Early Diagnosis Month,"in at least some parts of the country. Here, The Health Twins had their hands full and work cut out for them, as they could be seen "cleaning up such diseases as tuberculosis, infantile diarrhea, diphtheria and venereal disease." For patrons who craved higher and finer motion pictures, antics in ancient Greece and sickrooms alike would be replaced in a few days by Corrine Griffith & Charles Ray in "The Garden of Eden," (a fine picture that's still with us and in magnificent form too --- although I can't help but wish fate had been kinder to celluloid images depicting of The King of Ireland scampering about ancient Greece!)

If descriptions of "Vamping Venus" are enough to set film buff hearts fluttering, the image at the right is the sort that puts these loyal hearts in very real danger of stopping completely.

Shortly after the midnight hour struck, ushering in October 24th of 1929, a fire of unknown origin broke out in a film negative storage room of Consolidated Film Laboratories, Inc. in Hollywood, California. Despite the late/early hour, the building contained dozens of employees --- an around the clock staff kept on site to maintain the production level of prints and negatives that had skyrocketed with the introduction of the talkies.

Consolidated employee Annette Anderson, was busy at a film polishing machine, when an explosion in a nearby storeroom rocked the building. Within seconds, flames began to shoot out from the area and crawl along the ceilings and walls towards the seemingly endless supply of combustible celluloid that the building contained that would feed the fire and create a conflagration of epic proportions.

Al Lund, a 35 year old mechanic at Consolidated, attempted to halt the flames early on, but was soon overcome by the lethal concoction of fumes unleashed from the burning, bubbling and smoldering prints and negatives. Somehow managing to stagger into the street via a service door in the building, he collapsed and was pronounced dead by the fire department rescue squad that arrived on the scene.

One Mrs. Irene Beardsley, a Consolidated employee from Glendale, was rescued from the building but deemed so badly burned she wasn't expected to survive. J.G. Neiman, who kept his head and successfully rescued twenty girls from their various work stations within the building, was critically burned himself and like all others removed from the building, was rushed to Hollywood Emergency Hospital for treatment.

A second explosion followed, taking the roof of the building off with it, and sending inky black acrid smoke and flame high into the air, carried upwards by the release of inflammable gases released from the burning prints and negatives. At the height of the blaze, firemen found themselves unable to even approach the building, such was the intensity of flame and heat. Finally, after five hours, the blaze was brought under control and finally extinguished.

Not including the total loss of the $400,000 building, films estimated at a value approaching $6 Million dollars were lost too --- titles completed or in production by nearly all the major Hollywood studios. Among them, negatives for RKO's "Rio Rita" and "Seven Keys to Baldpate," Metro's "Hallelujah!" and "Untamed," and United Artists' "Taming of the Shrew." The following month, newspapers carried this item:

"Hollywood is chuckling at a rather cruel joke that came out of the ashes of the tragic and costly Consolidated Film Laboratories fire. To that once busy plant, many independent producers sent their precious negative for developing and printing. For a year, Consolidated has been doing this work for a picture that has become notorious for the length of time it has taken to film it. First reports following the disastrous blaze had it that 30,000 feet of negative for this picture had been destroyed. 'That's no loss,' remarked the wit. 'Only the credit titles burned.'"

Loss turns to gain, and here's as serviceable a cue as any to take a moment to mention an upcoming program of restored 1926-1930 Vitaphone short subjects that will be warily sharing the bill with a Columbia feature film of 1929 at New York City's "Film Forum" on Sunday, April 15th.

It seems to have been a good long time since the Film Forum last hosted a comparable Vitaphone program, and although it would have been lovely to have the shorts accompanied by such restored but impossibly elusive titles like the all-Technicolor 1930 "Under A Texas Moon" or "Viennese Nights," any such screening in New York City is good news indeed.

Past Vitaphone shows were exceptionally well attended, and trust me when I say that there's nothing --- absolutely nothing --- that approaches the pleasure of seeing these films in the company of a large and appreciative audience. The warmth and applause that greets each performer on the screen serves to make the image brighten and shimmer that much more, and the experience is almost other-worldly for die-hard early talkie buffs such as myself.

A complete list of scheduled music and comedy geared Vitaphone short subjects can be accessed via the Film Forum web site via this link, and the detailed notes (supplied by Vitaphone Project founder Ron Hutchinson) makes for fine reading indeed. In addition, here you'll find details regarding show times and directions for those unfamiliar with the great Film Forum theater. Far flung and widespread as readers of these pages seem to be, I don't expect many of you to be able to attend --- but for those that do, hope to see you there!

The Columbia feature selected for this program is 1929's "Song of Love," a starring vehicle for noted female performer, vaudevillian and recording artist Belle Baker. Prepared ad copy for a 1930 newspaper placement leaves little doubt as to the film's many (many!) merits:

"Belle Baker, the greatest vaudeville star on the American stage, made her motion picture debut yesterday in Columbia's 'Song of Love,' a back-stage drama written especially for her. Ralph Graves and David Durand play the leading roles in support of her. The audience followed with heart-throbbing interest, this story of the small-time vaudeville team, 'The Three Gibsons,' Tom, Anna and their little boy Buddy. Miss Baker's simplicity and her portrayal of mother love and her rendition of songs with a throb swayed the audience from laughter to tears and from tears to laughter."

"The part of the boy, Buddy, in the hands of David Durand, offers the youngster the biggest role of his youthful career. He acts with the sympathetic understand of an experienced trouper. Ralph Graves enacts his part with artistry."

"Miss Baker sings not only the number especially composed for this picture, but renders as well many hits that have brought her world-wide recognition. Erle C. Kenton, director, deserves special credit for his work on this production. See this picture --- it's great --- especially Belle Baker. She is without a doubt a sensation. As a singer, she is wonderful. As an emotional actress, she is great. The combination is incomparable."

Nearly a dozen restored Vitaphone shorts, and a chance to see what promises to be an emotional roller coaster of a 1929 Columbia feature film --- now that's a combination that is indeed incomparable. Mark your calendar, Tri-State early talkie fans!

For those who can't attend, or would enjoy a sample of Miss Baker's performance, here's a recording of one of the numerous and similarly themed songs from "Song of Love," performed as only Belle Baker could --- the sort of voice you find immediately appealing or off-putting, but either way, certainly quite unlike any other female vocalist of the period.

"I'll Still Go On Wanting You" (1929) From "Song of Love"

When you've composed yourself enough to resist the temptation to wring your hands and dab at the corner of your eye, we'll move along to this post's spotlight feature...

Mention "Weary River" to even the most forgiving of film buffs, and an unexpected critical outburst may follow --- or, less frequently, a warm smile and mild praise for the film. Either way though, chances are that at some point, the film's title tune and the frequency with which it is performed will be mentioned, and usually not in complimentary terms.

Best to admit straight away that I'm very fond of "Weary River," both the film and the song --- so I make no apologies for what follows: a loving overview of a technically accomplished and, more importantly, endearing film that, despite some difficult moments, manages to largely crackle with energy, innovation and a film that virtually pinpoints --- as do the few other surviving silent and sound hybrids, that pivotal moment in film history when silence gave way to sound and there'd be no turning back.

In November of 1928, newspaper movie gossip and news columns informed readers that Maurice Chevalier had just arrived in Hollywood and that his first picture would be "Innocents of Paris," that MGM was preparing "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" for filming, that Jack Holt had just completed "Avalanche" and was about to start on the Zane Grey based film "Sunset Pass," and also that Richard Barthelmess was about to start work on "Weary River," his next picture for First National, with "Scarlet Seas" having been his last. (See post "Somewhere East of Catalina" - December 2006 for details.)

Unlike "Scarlet Seas," which had been a silent film that was also available in a sound version synchronized with an orchestral score in addition to vocal and sound effects, "Weary River" appears to have been planned from the start as a film that would contain singing and dialogue sequences.

Based upon an original story by Courtney Ryley Cooper, with a screenplay by Bradley King, Dialogue by Tom Geraghty and direction by the always capable Frank Lloyd, the film's casting and production proceeded smoothly and quietly, but generated a January 1929 press announcement concerning one addition to the cast:

"Some movie stars like to have a different leading lady in every picture, but Richard Barthelmess has discarded that custom by selecting Betty Compson twice in a row."

Whether or not Compson was Barthelmess' personal choice is doubtful, but there's no denying it was an effective combination --- and one that would seem even more so in the audible portions of "Weary River." Others may sing the praise of Garbo and Gilbert or Gaynor and Farrell, but the short-lived combination of Compson and Barthelmess strikes me as near perfection. Compson was blonde, lithe, brittle and skilled enough to allow every emotion flicker across her expressive face without seeming calculated or absurd, whereas Barthelmess --- dark, thick set, grave and always smoldering somewhere just beneath the surface, needed just such a contrasting personality to point up his uniquely quiet and studied style and screen persona. Therefore, the few fleeting moments in "Weary River," when Compson's character manages to elicit a grin, a bit of a toothy smile, or even a playful wink from Barthelmess seem almost magical --- but also entirely natural.

Newspapers of January 20th 1929 announced the completion of "Weary River," and added: "Richard Barthelmess is one film star who believes in travel between pictures. The First National favorite, having completed his talking picture 'Weary River,' has departed for Havana, Cuba, for a vacation of a few weeks before starting his next vehicle. A South Seas yacht tour was his last vacation between pictures, and before that, a trip through Europe."

Barthelmess' love for the ocean and the art of seafaring had surely made "Scarlet Seas" a particular pleasure for the actor, and his passion would remain for the rest of his life while also prompting him to enlist in the Navy upon leaving films in 1942. He'd retire from service as a Lieutenant Commander. All that was a long way off however, from his portrayal of the darkly brooding bootlegger "Jerry Larrabee," his character in "Weary River."

The film opens with the art title depicted left, drawn skillfully enough to perfectly capture the essence of Barthelmess' character in the film and the actor's physical presence itself --- the folded arms, the stance of someone misunderstood and rather indignant about it too --- standing on a precipice, the darkness being penetrated by light emanating from a curtain being drawn back by a cloaked figure (Fate? Father Time? Death?) to reveal a brighter day or perhaps a glimpse of his future?

The film's introductory sequence, similar in concept and execution to the opening of "The Singing Fool," is a heady mixture of music and image although not quite so exhilarating nor delightfully dizzyingly giddy as the Jolson counterpart. Arriving at a speak-easy masquerading as a "Literary Club," are Jerry Larrabee (Barthelmess) and his gal Alice (Compson,) in the company of another couple. The camera tracks their entry into the club and we follow them to their specially reserved table, while activity swirls about the foursome in the form of fawning club management, serving staff and revel bent patrons --- dining, drinking and dancing.

We soon learn that Jerry and Alice are more than just an amorous couple out for a good time, and our suspicions --- already aroused by the pair's elegance and unusual clamoring by the club staff to see that their every whim is met --- are confirmed when Jerry is called to the telephone just moments after placing their dinner order.

For the sake of anyone within earshot, Jerry pretends the telephone call to be of a light romantic nature, but in fact the caller is a member of his gang --- a tough, hatchet faced hood --- and Jerry is wanted at an important meeting. Now. Returning to his table to take leave of his party, Alice's expression indicates his departure isn't entirely so much unexpected as simply a dreaded common occurrence. Her eyes follow Jerry as he leaves the dining area, wistful --- worried, but most of all? Sadly resigned.

The film's synchronized music and effects score is deserving of special attention, for it's here --- without benefit of visual accompaniment, that the convoluted yet almost seamless blending of musical and sound elements can best be appreciated.

I'm always awed by these surviving early Part-Talkers, for they're so beautifully executed that they seem almost the product of an industry that tried sound and reverted to semi-silence rather than the other way around. This first extract carries us from the opening of the film through our last stopping point in the story --- with Jerry leaving the club to attend to "business," with gradual shifts in musical tempo indicating the growing tension and trouble that clouds and eventually ruins the evening for the pair.

Excerpt #1

Arriving at his gang's usual watering hole, Jerry is advised by his mates that his gangland rival, Spadoni (Louis Natheaux) attempted to strong-arm their way into Jerry's territory earlier that evening, and an innocent bystander was shot in the process. Following the advice he gives to his gang, to "lay low," Jerry returns to Alice's apartment --- which he shares, or at least occupies, a good deal of the time. Stepping off the elevator, it's at this point that the film's musical score unobtrusively begins to retreat in preparation for the film's first dialogue sequence.

The sound of Jerry's key turning in the apartment door lock isn't the first sound effect heard in the film (the chatter of club patrons and the whine of a motorcar engine were heard earlier) but --- even today --- there's a sense of palpable excitement that comes with this simple sound effect, and if you're especially imaginative, you can almost sense 1929 audiences holding their breath at this moment in the film when music ceases, and a slight shift in the tonal quality of the soundtrack hints at what's about to happen: a vastly popular film actor speaking from the screen for the first time. (Compson was, I believe, heard not many months earlier in "The Barker," but this vehicle would allow her far more dialogue, if not dramatic range.)

Jerry is greeted by a negligee clad Alice, and the two share light banter and a cigarette before Alice asks Jerry --- who is leafing through sheet music at the piano --- to sing something, just for her. Seating himself, and with a sly grin, Jerry breaks into a chorus of "Frankie and Johnny," which Alice dismisses as "grand opera." Joke over, Jerry then sings the song he intended to all along, "It's Up To You." (Composed by Grant and Silvers, as is the film's title tune.)

While "It's Up To You" is performed, the film cuts between views of Jerry at the piano and Alice, who all but collapses onto a sofa and, listening to him sing, bites her lower lip and gazes at him with nearly orgasmic lust. Song concluded, Alice bounds from the sofa and falls into Jerry's arms, declaring --- with wavering voice, that when he sings, what it does to her is "nobody's business." The pair embrace, then rise --- and the brief moment that follows is quite the closest thing to definite eroticism in "Weary River," or any Barthelmess film for that matter. The Vitaphone score kicks in, reprising "It's Up To You" in a languid, almost drunken tempo as Jerry pulls Alice's body into his and they begin to dance a slow, grinding fox-trot to the tune --- him pulling her closer with each step, leading her towards the open doorway behind them which has a bed in full view. To our jaded eyes, it's a moment that often produces laughs --- but it's also a moment that isn't soon forgotten either. There's just something about it.

Excerpt #2

It's here we must pause a moment, and acknowledge the minor controversy that swirled about "Weary River" when it was made public that Barthelmess' singing voice was not his own, but rather that of one John Murray. After a brief flurry of press generated outrage, the matter swiftly evolved from one of audience deception into genuine interest of just how the feat was accomplished and what mechanics were involved. By January of 1930, typical newspaper capsule reviews of the film (see below left) dealt with the incident in a matter-of-fact way that indicated voice doubling --- while not precisely approved of, was not of deep concern either.

Looking at "Weary River" today, it's actually difficult to believe anyone was fooled by the deception beyond, perhaps, a scant twenty seconds or so into "It's Up To You." It's at this point that Barthelmess (mouthing the words while Murray sang off camera) fails to move on to the next line of the lyrics and clearly mouths the wrong word before catching himself and then moving ahead correctly. It's an incredibly sloppy error that baffles by the fact that it went unnoticed during production, screening of dailies and even preview screenings (if there were any) when it would have been so easy a flaw to correct. Indeed, it's truly the only element that spoils the illusion, for Murray's voice suits Barthelmess --- if not entirely, then certainly for the most part.

When last we left out pair, they were working their way slowly but absolutely towards Compson's bed chamber, but the ringing of a doorbell halts the seduction. In little more time than it takes to describe the scene, Jerry is told by the visiting plainclothesman that the passer-by who was shot in the gun-play earlier that evening positively identified Jerry as the gunman, and to that end, Jerry is wanted "downtown." Asking Alice to keep his drink cold and promising to return shortly, Jerry instead finds himself cuffed and led away. The scene switches to a courtroom verdict sentencing him to one-to-ten years in the state penitentary, "Lannering Prison," and a montage depicts Jerry being photographed, finger-printed, fitted out with a prison uniform (that includes a modest bow-tie) and led into a bath room, where he's ordered to strip and bathe. Willingly going along with all dehumanizing prison procedure up to this point, Jerry deems the guard's instructions to disrobe (in front of others!) to be the ultimate outrage, and blurts out "Like hell I will!" (silently, of course) before being tackled by the guards in a frenzied struggle which Barthelmess apparently wins, for he's...

... led into the Warden's office, disheveled and indignant, but still clad in his street attire. The kindly Warden (played by William Holden --- and no, it isn't) has seen many of Jerry's ilk before, and offers some sage advice to "play ball," and otherwise look upon this experience as not the end, but the beginning. Led to the office window by the Warden, Jerry is asked to take notice of two prisoners who've just departed --- with $5 apiece of state money in their pockets to start life anew. Sensing that there's a definite end to this gig, Jerry departs the office with head bowed in resignation.

A title card informs us that the passage of time mellows Jerry, who works his way through prison jute mill and laundry obediently, and is awarded "pleasanter accommodations" --- a shared cell with a window. The prison Warden is visited by Alice, armed with a permit to visit Jerry. Sizing her up correctly, the Warden advises her to keep away from Jerry --- that she can do him no good.
Alice is unconvinced, but a conveniently timed prison execution (by hanging) of a former gangster (who presumably enjoyed frequent visits by his moll) finally sways her and she departs, asking the Warden not to let Jerry ever know she was there.

Jerry Larrabee's musical skill is soon put to good use --- he's seen leading the prison orchestra in a classical piece during Sunday church service, during which the prison Chaplain (Edwards Davis) thanks Jerry for his contribution and then delivers an inspirational sermon that hits home with Prisoner #46039 as well as providing him with the lyrics for a new song he's compelled to compose shortly thereafter.

Excerpt #3


The sermon contained within the film --- and the film itself for that matter, seems to have struck a chord with religious figures at the time if contemporary newspaper accounts are to be believed, with "Weary River" receiving frequent mention in articles debating the moral content of talking films. One such column, in a Chillicothe, MO newspaper from August of 1929 used "Weary River" to argue in favor of talkie houses operating on Sundays: "American opinion has fast left behind the idea that there is anything harmful or disgraceful in a clean theater. Some of the great church men in the country have realized the value in the talking picture in helping them to teach their own divine doctrines. Recently, a famous pastor said, 'I have never preached a sermon stronger than the film 'Weary River.' If there are devout men who can say such things sincerely, can we be honest and farseeing in our objections to Chillicothe theaters opening for Sunday performances?"

A short while later, another prison concert is underway with Jerry again acting as maestro and the whole affair being broadcast live over the radio. At the night club Alice is attending, a (Brunswick) radio is hauled out onto the stage, and within moments the club patrons are listening to their old pal Jerry leading a jazzy refrain.

Excerpt #4

Alice is understandably surprised... but that's nothing compared to her reaction when the resident prison radio announcer (a genial Richard Cramer, three years before scaring the daylights out of Laurel & Hardy fans in "Scram!") informs listeners that Jerry Larrabee will now sing his own composition, "Weary River," for the first of four times throughout the film's length.

Compson is enchanted, moved, touched and spellbound by "Weary River," and so is anyone else who happened to be listening in, for the prison radio station (?) is immediately inundated with telephone calls and telegrams, demanding that Jerry sing the tune again, and right now too!

Excerpt 5

For the second rendition of the tune, Jerry omits the somewhat sticky opening verse and instead jumps right into the catchy refrain (see if you can't get it out of your head for weeks --- or forever --- after seeing the film) and the tune is soon carried to the heights of popularity, driven largely by the fact it's the work of a gangster and a convict, a fact which eludes Jerry. For now.













The success of "Weary River" serves to somewhat abbreviate Jerry's prison stint, and he bids farewell to the Warden only to be whisked off by a vaudeville manager, eager to cash in on Jerry's name value while still possible. Dubbed "The Master of Melody," Jerry's opening night in vaudeville should be a joyous occasion, but just before stepping on stage, a loutish hoofer boasts at having "knocked the handcuffs off the audience" for him. Barthelmess, only seconds before beaming with excitement and pride, is crushed by the careless jest --- and the look on his face is utterly heartbreaking --- but he makes his entrance gamely, is greeted warmly by the vaudeville theater audience (which includes Alice) and limbers up by playing a stray movement from the 1928 Fredie Grofe composition "Metropolis: A Blue Fantasie," (which was also put to good use in the 1929 Universal film "Broadway.")

With his confidence regained, Jerry announces "Weary River," but in the silence that follows a theater patron loudly (and badly dubbed) informs her companion, "You know, I understand that man's a convict." Barthelmess almost seems to collapse in upon himself at hearing the comment. Enthusiasm and confidence now completely dashed, Jerry's rendition of the song is weak --- thin, wavering.

Excerpt #6



Shooting glances at the audience while performing, all he sees are unimpressed and bored patrons --- prompting the sudden return of the "old" Jerry Larrabee, who continues and finishes the song with a sneer of contempt, nearly spitting the words at an audience he now despises. After leaving the stage to scattered applause (led primarily by Alice) we expect Jerry to chuck the whole gig --- especially after being told by his manager how terrible he was --- but instead Jerry promises to do better the next time and departs the theater, only to be met by his adoring fans skulking about the theater alley --- all ex-convicts and tramps, and all looking for a hand-out from their Old Pal. Jerry is at first disgusted, but when reminded of the fact that he's no better than them --- just luckier, Jerry spreads some wealth across the outstretched palms before walking off alone into the darkness --- spied from a distance by Alice.

Time passes, and with it so does public curiosity and Jerry's vaudeville career. No matter his attire, an invisible "Prisoner #46039" still hangs heavily about his neck. At loose ends one evening, he enters his old pub and within moments is basking in the warmth of recognition and acceptance from his old gang, receiving back-slaps, hugs and a jigger of aged Scotch in such a way as to leave little doubt that Jerry realizes this is his family, his home and his life.

The happy reunion is tainted by the news that the person Jerry supposedly shot was actually paid off by his rival Spadoni to take the bullet and finger him as the gunman. Now smoldering in a way that Barthelmess did magnificently, he vows revenge. His inner rage is suddenly softened however by a nearby player piano that breaks into "It's Up To You" (we can only assume Jerry arranged sale and publication while in prison) and his thoughts turn to the inspiration for the song, Alice. Not giving her the benefit of the doubt, he asks his pal who she's now hooked up with, and is surprised to learn that, in fact, she's been going it solo all this time --- but that Spadoni is making a play for her.

Jerry makes tracks for Alice's forlorn little flat, and as heard in the following two excerpts (which begins with Alice's tune being heard on the pub player piano) a roller-coaster of a reunion follows:

Excerpt #7 and Excerpt #8

Declaring himself "back for keeps," (Jerry tosses his hat on Alice's bed to drive the point home) and back in the racket, he's clearly not the man Alice expected --- and, voice-doubling aside, certainly not the same man she heard singing over the radio. Confused and defensive, Jerry rakes her over the coals for not coming to see him, but learns the truth (and the Warden's involvement) from a tearful Alice --- prompting him to unleash a torrent of pent-up emotion that clears the air between them and leads Jerry to suggest another attempt at going straight once and for all by marrying the loyal Alice. Once again however, the ringing of a doorbell throws a wrench into the works.

The interloper this time is Jerry's mob pal, Blackie (George E. Stone) urging him to get on down to their hangout, because Spadoni's been tipped off about Jerry's vow of revenge and intends to beat him to it by coming down to the pub and taking Jerry "for a ride" of the one-way ticket to the morgue variety. Despite Alice's impassioned pleas, Jerry puts marriage plans on the back burner and slinks away with Blackie.

As the appointed hour for Jerry's demise arrives -- midnight --, he and his gang position themselves around the dive, concealed weapons at the ready for whoever might enter. Barely escaping death without realizing it (or does he?) the prison warden saunters in and sits down at Jerry's table, explaining away his odd presence by requesting that Jerry make a special guest appearance on the prison's radio show (a regularly scheduled event, it seems) the following evening. Jerry agrees in order to get the Warden up and out, but at that moment there's movement at the pub's front door and it swings open!

Lights are switched off and the scene is momentarily illuminated by pistol shots coming from every corner of the dive just as police cars pull up and blue coats enter the scene, halting the action. When the lights are switched on, a slick haired figure lays dead, face down, alongside the bar rail. Is it...??? The camera swings around, revealing a very much alive Jerry who was kept from firing a single shot in the altercation by the kindly and level-headed warden. With nothing more than a weapons charge facing him, Jerry learns that it was at Alice's request that the warden appeared --- but she's had enough and is leaving him forever.

With Spadoni removed, and little else to do except brood on his lot in life, Jerry shows up at the prison radio station the following evening as planned, ready to trot out his old song, which is performed at this point with orchestra accompaniment for the first and only time in the film.

Excerpt #9

Fickle audiences being what they are, the switchboard again lights up just like old times, except that one of the callers is none other than Alice, who not only apparently moved over night, but was listening in from her new apartment. She tells Jerry that she recognized the same redeeming qualities in his voice that she believed were lost, and begs him to come to her if he wants to. Does he! Jerry dashes out of the radio station (the film's geography is muddy --- this time the radio station isn't in the prison but in the middle of the city) and in a welcomed bit of on location filming, he's seen dashing through crowded nighttime city streets (accompanied by an interestingly paced, thumping, orchestral rendition of "It's Up To You") before it dawns on him that he has no idea where Alice was calling from, and hightails it back to the radio station.

He's met at the entrance by the prison Warden, and a concerned policeman itching for an arrest --- but is instead sent on his way to Alice's correct address by the kindly, level-headed and accommodating warden, who holds off the cop while delivering the film's clumsy final line --- spoken above the swelling title melody: "Let him alone, he's going to see his sweetheart, that's all --- and they don't want to be bothered by any blue coated cupids."

Excerpt #10


As could be expected, "Weary River" was well received by critics and public alike at a point when the combined novelty of sound and the first appearance of the Barthelmess voice could wash away any film flaws. (In the photo the right, a NYC theater marquee for the film, can be seen, albeit just barely.)

"Weary River" continued to play around the country well into 1930, in both sound and silent versions, as indicated by the ad below for a Lima, Ohio theater in a hopefully worded ad that urged patrons not to "miss the silent version of the year's outstanding picture."

Then as now, you're only as good as your last picture --- and within a few months, most ad copy for Barthelmess' next and all-talking film, "Drag," flatly stated it to be a better picture than "Weary River." Whether or not it was isn't easily ascertained, for "Drag" is considered quite lost, leaving only recordings of the theme song ("My Song of the Nile") and innumerable copies of the tune's sheet music to delight E-Bay vendors and buyers for all time to come: "Richard Barthelmess in Drag!!!"

In what may be the only sobering note connected with "Weary River," the author of the original story, Courtney Ryley Cooper, would commit suicide in a New York City hotel in September of 1940, supposedly having been morose and despondent over the fact that he was snubbed by Washington officials when he approached them with what he believed to be vital information concerning Nazi German activities that he happened upon while in Mexico. Curiously, while his wife claimed he had conferred with his "close friend," J. Edgar Hoover not long before he was found dead, the FBI denied any connection with Cooper or that Mr. Hoover had even met with him. An uncharacteristically curt suicide note hinted at nothing of the talent that the man possessed, reading simply: "In my clothes is $43 in cash. I think my bill is about $32. Give the hotel $32."

Changing gears, and topping off this post (delivered a few days later than I anticipated!) a couple of lighter items!

The delightful 1929 image of Hal Roach's "Our Gang" cast was utilized in connection with an advertisement for the "Rolmonica," a mechanical device that combined the elements of the harmonica with that of a player piano. By threading a punched paper roll into the machine, and then blowing through the mouthpiece while turning a tiny hand-crank, mechanized music was produced. Judging by period newspaper advertisements, the device seems to have appeared in late 1928 and burned hot through 1929 and 1930, when it apparently fell from fashion and the beautifully simple but effective concept appears to have been entirely forgotten and never revived --- at least to my present knowledge.

It's interesting to note that in one 1929 entry in the Hal Roach series, "Lazy Days," a Rolmonica appears on screen, manipulated by Farina's sister Linoleum to play "Turkey in the Straw" with the least amount of effort possible --- a deflating balloon is attached to the mouthpiece in lieu of lung activity.

Early musicals were well represented in the Rolmonica (and deluxe 16-Note Chromatic Rolmonica) catalogue, with well over 40 tunes represented that originate from all the major studio's output of the period. In addition to being sold via novelty catalogues such as this one, from the legendary Johnson-Smith Company, the devices were also a featured item in department stores throughout the country at Christmas time of 1929, although marketing uncertainty (priced for an adult but best suited to children) as well as national economic concerns likely contributed to the item's swift exit from Christmas lists by 1931.

To close this entry, a glimpse at a decidedly unusual 1930 musical short subject.

Produced by Warner Bros. and similarly titled the studio's vastly more memorable forthcoming "Merry Melodies" animation efforts, "Spooney Melodies" (also a Leon Schlesinger production) featured Milton Charles, The Singing Organist in the short-lived series of what are believed to be five 1930-1931 entries.

An odd combination of limited animation (that can be interpreted as either avant garde or just horribly inappropriate and confounding) and live action film of Milton Charles singing and playing the theater organ, I can't help but wonder if the one surviving entry from the series, "Crying for the Carolines" (from the 1930 film "Spring Is Here") is representative or not.

The already somber song is reduced to a funereal pace --- sounding grimmer than ever on a pipe organ, while obscure images flit across the screen to "illustrate" the song. Some of these images make sense (trees, city skylines labeled "big town") but others, such as the ancient greek ship that floats above buildings one moment and is reflected in what looks to be a mirrored Christmas ornament the next, defy explanation. When Mr. Charles appears, the tone of the film is made darker still by his dour expression and lazy eye --- and an odd purring voice that's better heard than described.

Milton Charles - "Crying for the Carolines"

Despite or because of Mr. Charles' unique presence and obvious musical talent (his career began in the mid-1920's, and included song-writing in addition to organ playing) this entry in the series was booked throughout much of the country during the summer of 1930, frequently accompanying RKO's "Dixiana."

A proposed series of similar short subjects for Fox never materialized, but Charles remained a much in demand theater organist and recording artist as well, recording for Columbia in early 1930. An ad for one of his recordings can be seen at the right, with Charles performing "My Mother's Eyes," a song that originated in the 1929 George Jessel picture "Lucky Boy," but which was now being attributed to the film "War Song."

His career continued through the 1940's, during which he enjoyed a wartime radio stint --- playing melodies mostly of earlier days, titles supposedly requested by servicemen who had written in. One such example of his broadcast work can be heard here:

Milton Charles - 1945 Broadcast Transcription

In one unusual combination of recordings advertised in January of 1929, buyers had a choice of Milton Charles providing the organ accompaniment for Guy Lombardo's spin on "High Up On a Hilltop" or "The Two Black Crows in Hades," a double-sided comedic trip to the netherworld led by Charles Mack and George Moran, which is our final official offering for this particular entry.

The Two Black Crows in Hades - Part One

The Two Black Crows in Hades - Part Two

Audio Addendum:

Earlier blog posts featured various renditions of the title tune from "Weary River," but if by any chance you still can't get enough of the tune at this point, I've gathered the links together here for your convenience and also suggest a cool cloth applied to the forehead at regular intervals.


Victor Records Cross-Promotion Disc (1929)

Theater Organ rendition by John Cart (1929)

Joe Venuti and His New Yorkers (1929)

Until next time --- and hopefully right on schedule!

###

Barthelmess on Radio - 1938

Newspaper "MovieTest" - Fresno, California - August 1929

Good News and Bad - July 1929

Theater Lobby Allure
Costume worn by "Spirit of Water" character in "Madam Satan" (1930)
loses something on this brave woman!

Extra Rolls for 10 cents Each

A Rolmonica for Christmas?

Ad for obscure "Synchrotone" Process

More "Synchrotone"

Adding to Your Movie Going Comfort...

Poster Art - "The Dawn Patrol" - 1930

Poster Art - "The Noose" (1928)


Warner Bros., Vitaphone & Brunswick

"Weary River" lyrics submitted to newspaper as an original poem, 1951

Compson, in the throes of Barthelmess induced ecstasy...

Well, it could happen... (November 1929)

###

Temples of Mystery

Although the image to the left dates from 1909, I suspect many readers of considerably newer vintage will have little trouble in recalling a similar scene from their own childhood.

The young boy so intrigued with "Grandmother's Fortunes" --- tentatively placing his fingers on the glass case, or perhaps tapping on it with a coin (just to make sure?) seems to be in the company of his father and, somewhat obscured, two older brothers. Father seems far more interested in the sandwich board sign advertising "Latest Popular" something-or-other and seems anxious to move along, while one brother eyes the glass entombed Grandmother with what I presume would be the worldly and bored air of someone who deems himself too old and wise to be taken in by so dull a mechanical affair. Whether or not little brother mustered up enough interest to drop a coin in the machine --- or if he already did, is something we'll never know.

Once the main lure at the entrance to innumerable amusement arcades and parlors, The Fortune Teller machine seemed to move further back into the dark recesses of these establishments with each passing year. Indeed, by the time I first encountered such a device, in the late 1960's, she was found against a back corner wall of a seaside penny arcade --- along with a dozen or so other elderly machines that only appealed to me because they all could be sampled cheaply --- a penny or nickel at a time when only dimes (and even quarters!) were required for the amusements that were the life blood of the arcade.

"Grandmother" sat inside her glass booth, stock still.

Her pose indicated the possibility of sudden movement, what with her head cocked to one side and slightly lowered, as if for watching for just the right moment to flee. Her hands rested just slightly above the surface of her table, as if at any moment they might press downward on the wooden table to support her as she rose --- a horrific scenario to contemplate considering that her brittle hands would likely break off cleanly at her wrists were such a thing to happen and, not incidentally, that she wouldn't get very far without lower limbs of any sort.

Her face was lined not with wrinkles but with a myriad of spidery lines of cracks in her paint, her turban covered in a fine layer of the same dust that covered all her clothing (mostly sun bleached purple and gold, I recall) with tufts of what looked like horse hair poking out from under the fabric of her headgear --- fabric that looked so brittle and threadbare that a touch would probably cause it to fall away.

Unlike the "Grandmother" in the photo, she had no cat perched atop her shoulder --- which was likely just as well, as that wouldn't have set well with me at all owing to an earlier Coney Island experience in seeing a band of stuffed (once real) chimpanzees that jerkily played "Down in Jungle Town" when you inserted a coin in a slot underneath the very large glass display case. (I had nightmares for weeks.)

Among the collection were a few Mutoscope machines, all a dull brick red in color --- scraped, gouged and rusted in spots. Armed with a handful of pennies and nickels, I stood on a wooden crate, turned the handle with some difficulty, and saw the much faded original Mutoscope cards flip past the lens, the brittle edges flaking as they did, sending up a miniature snowstorm of dust and paper --- fanned by the movement of the wheel, that danced in the harsh incandescent light source and became as much a part of the show as the images themselves. My first view of Charlie Chaplin or possibly one of his imitators. No title card, no beginning and no end, save for when the light vanished from the lens and the crank became immobile.

Next to the Mutoscope machines were devices similar in design but without crank --- and only one of which I still vividly recall. A placard attached to the top of the machine in a small frame advertised "The Original Fan Dance. Gentlemen Only." The required nickel hinted that a better show could be had than the one-cent Mutoscopes offered, and one shove of the wooden crate later, I had deposited my coin into the slot and pressed my eyes close to the lens, shielding them from either side with my hands, so as to have a pristine view.

The light went on, and much to my surprise, a miniature stage was on view --- replete with red velvet curtain, spotted with age and mildew. I'm sure that I expected what would amount to a complete theatrical production in miniature, but instead the tiny curtain parted in the middle and revealed a curious sight: A silken lady's fan to which was attached two small slender doll legs fitted with tiny shoes --- the whole affair held aloft by a string, which then bobbed up and down, causing the fan to "dance."

Eagerly awaiting for something interesting to happen or even for music to begin, the light clicked off after a few seconds, signaling an unexpected end to the show. Perplexed but too impatient to give it much thought, I simply stepped away and it would be a good many years before I'd understand the play on words that formed the lure --- or even that I'd been taken --- thereby joining the ranks of what had probably been thousands of curious boys throughout the decades that preceded the 1960's.

Returning to the mechanical fortune teller before leaving the arcade, and not knowing what to expect, I warily inserted a coin. A dim yellow light filled the inside of the case, revealing details I hadn't noticed before --- not the least of which were a collection of the desiccated husks of numerous insects that had made the mistake of entering her glass lair either a few days or half a century earlier. Her movement was disappointingly minimal, limited to her head slowly turning at the neck, giving her eyes the curious appearance of remaining fixed on somewhere far off beyond the confines of the case and arcade --- perhaps on the sun splashed boardwalk and ocean beyond --- while her right hand moved with arthritic slowness across a few playing cards that were fanned out before her, curled at the edges and faded.

With a mechanical sound from deep inside the cabinet, her body lurched forward slightly as a small card dropped into a nickel plated slot. Task completed, her body jerked backwards to it's starting position --- her hand and head had already done so --- and the light clicked off.

Given the amount of vivid detail I recall up to this point, it's surprising that I've absolutely no recollection of the contents of the fortune card itself, but in retrospect I realize that any printed message it may have contained is completely beside the point, for although the card may have indicated success, romance or offered vague advice, what it really said was "Remember Me."

Throughout the mid-1920's and up until the late 1930's, newspapers contained intriguing prepared publicity placements and advertisements for "The Mysterious Smith Company" of traveling vaudevillians. An apparently successful group of entertainers that effortlessly drew audiences in primarily small towns and cities for a decade, their performance nearly always was billed as a "second feature" in cinemas, where they shared the stage with silent and early sound films alike before settling into an oddly coincidental booking pattern that had them almost always paired with Ruth Chatterton films (both Paramount and Warners product) --- a connection, if there is one, that eludes me.

Their act changed little over the years, with 1926 newspaper descriptions of the performance being almost identical to those that appeared in 1933:

"The Mysterious Smith show is divided into three parts. In the first part, Smith performs a number of illusions and mysteries, principal among them being his famous 'Spirit of '76' Illusion, the 'Clansman Illusion,' 'Catching Fish in Thin Air,' and 'Rat in a Wine Bottle' trick. In the second part of the show, Madame Olga answers various questions asked by persons in the audience. The show closes with another performance by Mysterious Smith. His famous 'Thumb-Tie Mystery' demonstrated in the third part proved highly entertaining and perplexing."

A "Coffin Escape" illusion was added in 1930 and quickly became a key selling point for the show, remaining in place for many years and providing free publicity for the local funeral home owner who supplied the casket and received print and performance mention in return. From 1926 to approximately 1933 though, the real draw was mind-reader, mystic and savant, Madame Olga who may or may not have been wed to Mysterious Smith in real life.

Audiences were virtually guaranteed by a clever ruse, in which newspapers announced the impending arrival of Madame Olga and the Mysterious Smith troupe, and offered readers the chance to fill in a coupon with their question for the mystic, and mail it to the newspaper office. Only the first twenty questions would receive answers printed in the newspaper while the show played town, with the remaining (and bulk) of questions being promised answers if the reader attended one of the performances.

Madame Olga's contribution to the performance burned hot between 1929 and 1931, but by 1933 she was no longer a featured element and by 1934 vanishes from print ads altogether, as does the once elaborate nature of the show which is then dramatically trimmed down to the point where only Mysterious Smith himself is mentioned --- the once three-act spectacle a victim of the Depression and the death of vaudeville itself.

We've no way of knowing what music was utilized during performances of "The Temple of Mystery," but surely at some point the use of "Gypsy Love Song" from Victor Herbert's "The Fortune Teller" would have proven as irresistible as logical, especially in the sort of rendition offered here --- a quivering violin and piano setting a suspenseful mood, as in this 1927 recording by violinist Rae Eleanor Ball:

"Gypsy Love Song" - 1927

It's beautifully simple to envision this tune being played as Madame Olga made her veiled entrance on stages from West Virginia to Idaho --- audiences sitting on the edge of their seats, eager to have the questions they mailed in the week before answered by the famed psychic.

From 1921 comes a melody without any mysticism attached to it, aside from the fact that ever since first encountering it, it's never completely left me. A difficult to describe love strain set to strident rhythm, "Moonlight" is at once cheering and melancholy, optimistic and resigned. Two versions of the melody are offered here, a re-created piano rendition of sorts and a smashing period orchestral recording by the grandly named "Emil Coleman and His Castles-by-the-Sea Orchestra," that manages to work in slide-whistles and rhythm blocks and still seem supremely elegant.

"Shadows are creeping,
the whole world is sleeping,
while old days are changing to new.

Love birds are nesting,
the flowers are resting,
awaiting 'til dawn brings the dew.

All is still --- o'er the hill ---

On thru the gloaming,
I find myself roaming,
and once more
the path leads to you!

Moonlight when shadows fall,
Moonlight I hear you call,
Love beams
thru ev'ry silv'ry gleam
that's shining,
I'm pining.

Moonlight so soft above,
June light please find my love,
Tell her that I'm still waiting
in the pale moonlight!"

"Moonlight" - Piano Transcription

"Moonlight" - 78rpm Orchestral

The breathtaking view to the left is that of the Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition of 1905, held in Portland, Oregon.

Not far from where this artful photograph was taken (the peculiar angle makes the possibility of bounding down those terraced steps seem a very real possibility) stood the Manufacturers, Liberal Arts and Varied Industries building, a 90,000 square foot structure freely designed in a Spanish Renaissance style that must have seemed exotic indeed to Oregon residents of 1905.

Within the massive building were individual areas given over to innumerable magnificent displays of product by manufacturers of furniture, power machinery, rope, wire cable, typewriters, adding machines, glassware, jewelry, lamps, radiators and all manner of similar items seemingly randomly collected but forming a unified whole representing technical innovation and progress. Amidst all the displays, one attracted special attention --- that of the Columbia Gramophone Company, which was offering --- in what strikes me as a forward thinking advertising maneuver, souvenir records of Exposition visitor's voices. Recorded right there, on the spot, I suppose the general intent was to convince visitors to purchase a Columbia machine in order to play the record at home --- but whether or not a hard sell followed the making of a recording is uncertain, who in 1905 couldn't resist the notion of walking away with a wax cylinder that contained their own voice, even if they couldn't play it?

Remarkably, just one such 45 second recording has survived --- and not only long enough to outlive the technology that created it, but to survive into an age that allows it to be heard and shared in a way that would have been beyond human understanding in 1905.

There's much that can be gleaned from this noisy half minute of sound from one-hundred and two years ago, but I think the real surprise is how oddly contemporary it seems. I suppose it's natural to think of someone in 1905 speaking in a theatrical, quaint fashion --- but there's none of that here.

Instead, we have a young girl (Gladys Crawford, I believe her name to be) signaled to speak into the recording horn by the Columbia representative and after a strong start, in which she identifies herself and admits she's (quite literally) "talking to hear herself talk," she announces the date (August 31st) gets it wrong and is corrected by her young female companion. She says a few more words that are difficult to ascertain but that include her name and address in her hometown of Albina, and then --- quite understandably too, becomes flustered with the whole mystifying process and simply laughs gleefully, stepping back and away from the recording horn. The Columbia technician quickly steps forward, and says "Well, I can't laugh," but finds himself caught up in the moment and likely by the sight of the two giggling girls too, and begins to chuckle and then laugh himself --- and there the recording ends.

It's a beautiful fragment of time captured forever in something so surprisingly elemental as wax, which --- by it's utter simplicity in both form and content --- makes both 1905 and those who lived in 1905 seem very close somehow and, more importantly, very little different from us today.

"Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition Recording" (1905)

If you were a vendor of hot tamales --- a Hot Tamale Man, in the Montana of 1906, yours was a trade that dealt in danger, excitement and fear that extended far beyond just the mere contents of the rolled corn husks you hawked.

You could be the victim of a daring daylight robbery such as the one that occurred in Butte, Montana in early April of 1906, for which a newspaper dispatch suggests that robbery of Hot Tamale Men was a frequent event!

"The common practice of robbing hot tamale men in Butte got a cruel jolt last night, when one of the pair alleged to have held up Salem Karoum, taking his can, basket and $6 in his pocket, was captured by police two hours later with 10 tamales in his pockets. The other accused man is still at large."

Only six days later the Anaconda, Montana newspaper carried details of a similar outrage enacted against yet another tamale vendor, as detailed by a court room reporter:

"Pat Kelly faced the music. The charge against him was that he kicked over a hot tamale man's basket and can. Kelly meekly pleaded guilty and the Judge, wishing to learn more about the occurrence, called Officer Harvey, who made the arrest. In the stand, Harvey stated that Kelly not only kicked over the can without apparent provocation but he also used bad language. The hot tamale man was in court and anxious to testify, but was not given the opportunity. Said the Judge to Pat Kelly, 'Young man, this will cost you a fine of $25. These hot tamale men have been kicked and cuffed about considerably in recent months. They are entitled to protection just the same as you would be if someone tried to impose upon you. Be good, and the world will be good to you.' With that, Pat Kelly went below to talk with the jailer about raising the amount of his fine so that he could secure his liberty."

Happily, no such trial nor tribulation is evident in Arthur Collins' recorded rendition of "The Hot Tamale Man," issued in two slightly varying editions for both Victor and Columbia records in 1909.

Part ragtime, part vendor spiel ("Hot tamales keeps away the fleas, Hot tamales cures cramps in the knees") it's Arthur Collin's song from start to finish --- replete with his infectious laugh and now somewhat regrettable ethnic humor of another day and time for which we need not hide ourselves from or seek to fix blame.

The Columbia version is actually quite the better version, being more melodic and mellow --- but it's the Victor recording that we have here now, and it's with this record that we leave The Hot Tamale man to peddle his wares, albeit warily...

"The Hot Tamale Man" (1909)

You won't find actress Ethel Levey mentioned in early accounts of George M. Cohan's life and certainly nowhere within the 1942 film "Yankee Doodle Dandy," but no matter --- she was still his wife for a good many years, the mother of his daughter Georgette, and an entertainment force to be reckoned with when paired with Cohan on the Broadway stage, as they were in "Little Johnny Jones" and "George Washington, Jr." among others.

From the latter show, comes this spirited recording of Ethel Levey performing "I Was Bred in Virginia," a song so much her own and so closely identified with her that it became known as "Ethel Levey's Virginia Song." The association would be removed and revert to Cohan for the 1942 film, but it's Levey's unusual voice and phrasing that's worthy of attention here, for chances are you've never heard it... or anything quite like it.

"Ethel Levey's Virginia Song" (1906)

At the close of 1906, newspapers carried details of the pending Levey & Cohan divorce:

"Ethel Levey, wife of George M. Cohan, the actor and playwright, will bring suit for divorce. Mrs. Cohan's mother said tonight: 'My daughter is to sue for divorce immediately.' George Cohan is at present playing in Boston, and he confirmed the report tonight. The information that Mr. and Mrs. Cohan are to be divorced follows a statement made by Mr. Cohan in an advertising publication of December 22nd to the effect that Mrs. Cohan, who is known on the stage as Miss Ethel Levey, would retire from the cast of 'George Washington, Jr.' and acting upon her physician's advice, would spend the winter in Florida. It was further announced that Miss Levey, having played in her husband's productions for the past two and a half years with but one week's vacation during that time, had earned a much needed rest."

Before passing away in 1955, Levey would appear in "High Stakes," a jaw-dropper of a 1931 RKO film that featured Lowell Sherman and (in quite possibly her best and most underappreciated film role) Mae Murray, as well as the 1940 Leon Errol two-reeler "Tattle Television" for Columbia. Incredible.

A recent viewing of Fox's 1927 "Seventh Heaven" reminded me of not just how good a film it is, but also of the odd fact that the triple Academy Award winning film (best actress, director and writing/adaptation) is kept largely out of circulation here in the States, although it remains readily available on DVD in other countries.

Tricked up with a synchronized Movietone musical score and effects (although Gaynor and Farrell are not heard --- a decidedly positive factor in retrospect,) the film's theme song, "Diane" quickly became a popular standard that lingers on long after seeing the film --- or not seeing it, for that matter.

Here's two equally excellent versions of "Diane," one by the Troubadours (with Nat Shilkret and the Victor Orchestra) and the other by vocalist Franklyn Baur, which retains the seldom heard opening verse.



"Diane" (1927) The Troubadours

"Diane" (1927) Franklyn Baur

A 1929 Fox film that won't be coming soon to any screen (or DVD) in the foreseeable future --- but with good reason, is the lost feature "Masked Emotions," for which we a lovely (and real)
original poster depicted to the right.

In general release through late 1929, the synchronized feature (which appears to have contained at least one talking sequence) was described as a "melodramatic romance with adventure of the most thrilling sort, abundant love interest and nice comedy relief." Details of the plot are surprisingly different from what the action depicted in the poster suggests, as "the story has to do with a college youth, cruising off the coast of Maine with a chum in an old sloop, when he becomes interested in the daughter of the captain. They discover a smuggling plot and one of the youths is very roughly treated by members of the crew who are in the conspiracy."

Just an in and outer, the film appeared to have gotten wide release --- although invariably on the bottom half of a double bill, paired with a Western.

The 1930 Metro feature "Way Out West" starred popular light comedian William Haines, who's presence in sound films is either a trial or joy depending on one's mood (and knowledge of Haines' life,) but "Way Out West" chiefly benefits from the unusual setting and as fine a supporting cast as one could hope for --- including Lelia Hyams, Cliff "Ukelele Ike" Edwards, Polly Moran and Charles Middleton.

The film's theme song, "Singing A Song to the Stars" is given wide exposure throughout the film --- being warbled at least twice and heard numerous times in the incidental scoring, and it's one instance where a melody doesn't overstay its welcome.

Cheerful, plaintive and sweetly endearing, here's "Singing A Song to the Stars" as performed by Leo Reisman and His Orchestra, with Fran Frey providing the wistful vocal:

"Singing A Song to the Stars" (1930)



When not acting as master of ceremonies for elaborate stage presentations such as the one from 1924 detailed at the left (which included "Paul Whiteman's S.S. Leviathan Orchestra",) Comedian and vocalist Al Bernard could be heard via the radio (appearing that same year on the "Dixie Stars" musical program) or, more easily, via numerous phonograph records.

Mr. Bernard was featured in an earlier post ("The Snows of Yesteryear" - January 2007) but a recent note from a reader prompts me to allow him to take center stage again, with three rather diverse recordings from 1919 and 1924.

"St. Louis Blues" and "When Mariuch Shake Da Shimmie Sha Wob" (both 1919) are both performed in ethnic dialect and typical of their day --- although "St. Louis Blues" is by far the more memorable of the two, due largely to the timeless W.C. Handy composition which defies whatever is thrown at it.

With 1924's "In 1999," we're on firmer ground --- and Bernard is in better form, in this comedic but oddly prophetic view of the future. While all the predictions haven't come true, some show a distinct possibility of doing so!

"The St. Louis Blues" (1924) Al Bernard

"When Mariuch Shake Da Shimmie Sha Wob" (1919) Al Bernard

"In 1999" (1924) Al Bernard

This seems a logical point to also offer two additional recordings by vocalists familiar to these pages and its readers, Vaughn DeLeath and Irving Kaufman --- two names near and dear to the heart of record collectors and phonograph aficionados alike. I suspect that even the most prolific of record collectors will ever be able to say with any certainty that they either own or have heard every recording by either of these artists, for their output was so large and the number of names they recorded under so plentiful.

No, Vaughn DeLeath's "Drowsy Head" isn't the offered item here --- at least yet, but readers may be as surprised as I was to note that she co-authored this tune with Irving Berlin in 1921.

Instead, we have 1927's "Somebody Said," in which DeLeath takes on anyone who'd have the gall to comment upon her young man in less than stellar terms --- or overly gushing ones too, for that matter.

"Somebody Said" (1927) Vaughn DeLeath

Irving Kaufman's contribution is the hugely popular "When Day Is Done," and it's once of the few instances where Kaufman seems to sleepwalk through it all --- injecting little personality and less enthusiasm than is usual, seeming almost eager to get it done with and go home. Ah well, we all have our off days.

"When Day Is Done" (1927) Sam Lanin & His Orchestra, with vocal by Irving Kaufman

From Paramount's "The Cocoanuts," comes yet another rendition of "When My Dreams Come True," and at a point where I thought I had heard them all --- up to and including Hawaiian guitar interpretations. No matter, it's a song that can do no wrong insofar as I'm concerned.

This go around, it's performed by Hal Kemp and His Orchestra (with vocal by Skinnay Ennis) as recorded for Brunswick in May of 1929.

Unusually breezy and smooth, this version hints at the fact that those dreams of Spanish castles aren't as fanciful as supposed.

"When My Dreams Come True" (1929) Hal Kemp & His Orchestra

On July 27th of 1929, readers of Lima, Ohio newspapers learned that the popular State Theater --- currently shuttered, was scheduled to reopen in a few days with the Warner Bros. all talking film "The Gamblers" as the inaugural attraction for the revamped theater.

"In addition to the up-to-the-minute talking apparatus, which has been installed, the State Theater boasts a perforated metal screen, something new in the line of film-showing equipment. According to George Ritzler, manager of the State, the voices of the speakers will come directly from the screen, instead of from the sides, as they do with most talking equipment. Ritzler pointed out that since the voices of the actors will come from the back of the performers, the reproduction will seem more realistic."

This otherwise innocent story helps to explain curious references often found in contemporary reviews of early talkies that refer to sound coming from "various parts of the theater." Just such a statement is made in the NY Times review of "Noah's Ark," although in this case (where sound is also mentioned as coming from the back of the theater) it might have been what amounts to the earliest attempt at a surround-sound effect or (more probably) the odd acoustics of the theater reflecting the sound being thrown upward and away from the screen. Either way, a puzzle.

MGM's "Children of Pleasure" (1930) is a showcase for the infinitely affable Lawrence Gray, and although it doesn't turn up on TCM anywhere nearly as often as it once did (but then, what from 1929 and 1930 does of late?) it's well worth catching if future scheduling allows.

In addition to Lawrence Gray's excellent vocalizations of "The Whole Darn Things For You" and "Leave It That Way," the film contains a gem of a Technicolor musical number titled "Dust" which, while having survived intact and in its original nicely preserved hues, is seen within the body of the film only in grainy black and white -- a simple matter to remedy, but one beyond the interest of the film's present owners. "Dust" can also be seen --- in much degraded Technicolor and somewhat truncated form (the opening vocal is cut) in the 1934 MGM Technicolor two-reeler "Roast Beef and Movies," which was tossed onto the DVD release of "Dancing Lady," a disc you may already have in your collection but never yet fully explored.

A long-winded introduction I know, but here --- to fill a reader's request, is "The Whole Darned Thing's For You" --- as performed by Ben Selvin & His Orchestra, with vocal by Don Howard.

"The Whole Darned Thing's For You" (1930) Ben Selvin & His Orchestra

Also from 1930, comes this recording of "Lady Play Your Mandolin," by vocalist Nick Lucas --- seen to the right in a posed still from 1929's "Gold Diggers of Broadway," with Nancy Welford (right) and Winnie Lightner (bottom right knee.) Not many months had passed since his recording of two tremendously popular tunes from that film, and yet in listening to "Lady Play Your Mandolin," Lucas seems incredibly more polished a performer --- as much relaxed, smooth and confident as he seemed tremulous and somehow distant in the two "Gold Diggers" recordings.

"Mandolin" would also provide the basis for the 1931 Warner Bros. cartoon of the same title, in which Abe Lyman and His Orchestra provided the music. The curious can see a (fairly bad quality) representation of the cartoon on the otherwise superb DVD release of "Little Caesar," but there's no waiting to listen to Nick Lucas' fine Brunswick recording. (Don't pay too close attention to the lyrics, as I'm unable to explain the line "I could eat your heart.")

"Lady, Play Your Mandolin" (1931) Nick Lucas

Closing out this post, which traveled from boardwalk arcades to coffin escapes, while stopping for a hot tamale luncheon --- comes an exceptionally fine rendition of the title tune from Universal's "Broadway" (1929) as performed by the fine British ensemble of Arthur Rosebury and His Kit-Kat Club Orchestra, and with enthusiasm and verve of the sort many American performers somehow couldn't easily muster for the tune.

In truth, there's not a whole heck of a lot to the composition, but what there is of it, is pure velvet.

"Broadway" (1929)

Apologies for the long stretch between posts --- but you can expect at the very least, to see and hear something new in these pages once a week. Perhaps not on any set schedule, but once a week.

It's my pleasure, folks!

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There's a Limit to Everything --- Anaconda, MT - 21 April 1908

A Victim of the Depression - 5 February 1931

A Slow News Days in Decatur, Illinois - 24 September 1909

Mme. Olga & Co. - Danville, VA - 20 September 1927

Mr. & Mrs. George M. Cohan - Circa 1905

Ethel Levey Obituary - 28 February 1955

Balloon Ascension, Lewis & Clark Centennial Exposition - Portland, Oregon 1905

One of very few remaining structures from the Lewis & Clark Exposition,
the former NCR Building (which featured motion pictures) now a pub.

NCR Building, as it appeared in 1905

Fox Film Newspaper Publicity Placement - January 1929


A Puzzle Contest for "Lilies of the Field" (Warners-1930)


Majestic Ad for an Intimate Film





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Elixir Vitae

We'll inaugurate this month's series of posts with the sort I especially enjoy doing --- and you seem to like best --- a series of light and diverse items, of no particular time and place beyond that of originating in our past.

At first glance, the rather awesome figure at the left would appear to have surely adorned Coney Island's famed "Dreamland" amusement area, but in fact we're looking at an amusement concession at Buffalo New York's Pan-American Exposition of 1901, a month or so before the ethereal beauty of the event would be forever linked with --- and marred by --- the assassination of President William McKinley.

When the image is enlarged (by clicking on it) we see nineteen concession employees dwarfed by the lathe and plaster facade, the surreal elegance of would have lured visitors alone --- although the addition of a string of illuminated globes doubling as a pearl necklace for the figure spells out "Midway Mystery" to further convince the doubtful to buy their entry.

Nine makeshift tables or stools, atop which sit lanterns, provide a clue as to what a patron was faced with upon entering the concession, which was in actuality anything lyrical and peaceful: a dark maze of mirror-lined walls. Bland fare today it seems, but imagine working your way across hastily laid plank wooden flooring, holding a hot and presumably smoking lantern (unless they were electric --- which I doubt) as you felt your way through mirrored passages, trying to see against the glare of the lantern reflected a hundred times over --- not to mention the constant care needed to keep the lantern from hitting mirrored surfaces! On a hot summer's day, in the stiff and heavy clothing of the day, the entire experience must have been closer to Dante's Inferno than Dreamland.

An alternate view of the Exposition's entertainment midway puts "Dreamland" in a very different perspective --- one in which it quickly loses it's assumed grandeur amidst other equally ornate and appealing concessions, among them an appearance by the infamous Cardiff Giant fraud, Lubin's Cinemagraph ("Life Motion Pictures,") one of many incarnations of "The Streets of Cairo"exhibition, and a beer garden offering "cool lager," which must have done brisk business with patrons having just escaped the confines of "Dreamland." While details of this image aren't as clear as one would hope, one odd feature is that a large duck seems to be intently following a man dressed in garish overalls of some sort, likely a walking advertisement for a midway feature --- while a few pedestrians and concession employees look on in amusement. Where they came from, or where they were going, we'll never know.

The 1918 tune "Hindustan" figured in a very early post in connection with another amusement area, so I can't resist offering a different version here, only because it seems to suit the images so nicely despite the skewed chronology --- this time a masterful modern re-creation of the melody.

Surprisingly, "Hindustan" first appeared with a set of lyrics too --- which while typical of the period and of the sort that adorned countless other songs of the day, nonetheless add a certain charm when matched with the music, either mentally or vocally if you're so inclined, which can be done easily while listening.

"Hindustan" (1918) Modern Re-Creation

"Camel trappings jingle,
Harp strings sweetly tingle,
With a sweet voice mingle,
Underneath the stars!

Singing,
Memories are bringing,
Temple bells are ringing,
Calling me afar!

Hin-du-stan,
Where we stopped to
rest our tired caravan...

Hin-du-stan,
Where the painted peacock
proudly spread his fan...

Hin-du-stan,
Where the purple songbird
flashed across the sand...

Hin-du-stan,
Where I met her
and the world began!"



Having concluded a respectable run of 184 performances at New York's Knickerbocker Theater in June of 1912, the Klaw & Erlanger production of "Kismet" embarked on a long and successful tour, which would still be in progress when the above image was taken --- on February 26th of 1914, either in --- or in the vicinity of, Denver, Colorado. An easier to view enlargement of the image may be seen by clicking here.

Featuring actor Otis Skinner in a role that would be, quite literally, the role of a lifetime, the production was widely acclaimed for it's rich scenic beauty and myriad of lighting and special effects, some of which were more akin to the elaborate magic shows of the period than anything seen in a standard stage production.

Although production of a talking film version of "Kismet" was mentioned in newspapers as early as mid-1929, it wouldn't materialize until late 1930 --- and when it did, despite being by all account perhaps one of the most breathtaking early musicals (in Technicolor and, in some cities, screened in Warners' Vitascope widescreen process) it was largely ignored by the public --- many of whom had already seen Skinner in his famed role at some point during the past twenty years, if not on the stage then in a 1920 silent version. Playing in American theaters throughout early 1931 --- often on a double bill, print ads barely hinted at the film's opulence and completely omit any mention of Technicolor, suggesting it was never seen in this format during it's general distribution.

Not unlike the Indian lad who scampered up the rope and vanished --- so has the film. Two additional film remakes, in 1944 and 1950, offer a faint glimmer of hope that the 1930 film might have served as a reference tool for one or both of these productions and therefore might be still be tucked away somewhere awaiting rediscovery, but that's probably as wildly optimistic as it is improbable at this point.

At the same time a silent production of "Kismet" was appearing on screens throughout much of 1920, Isham Jones and His Orchestra had released their Brunswick recording of a similarly titled tune --- typical of the Orientalism themed melodies of the day that suggest mysticism as much as they do early jazz, it's an atmospheric ear-full as suitable for incense burning as it is for dancing as it is for an amateur magic act.

"Kismet" (1920) Isham Jones & His Orchestra


In December of 1919, newspapers across the country carried the odd item to the left, describing the construction of a female automaton --- a mechanical woman named "Isis," by one Dr. Cecil Evelyn Nixon, a San Francisco dentist. Described as containing 1,487 gears --- 300 in her breast alone, and being able to "play any tune requested on a zither," the creation supposedly took sixteen years to build.

There's certainly no mention of this mechanical wonder in the few earlier instances where Dr. Nixon received mention in newspapers, but we do learn more of this interesting fellow --- aptly described as a "colorful figure" upon his death in 1962. An eccentric, a dreamer, a skilled magician, and a self-described "Victorian Mystic" who dressed in frock coat, high collars and pince-nez decades after the style had fallen from fashion, Cecil Nixon was also a master showman and skilled self-publicist who, almost like the clockwork mechanisms contained within his automaton, secured newspaper space for himself at regular intervals between the late 'teens and early 1960's --- a remarkable feat in of itself for anyone of his ilk.

In June of 1917, Dr. Cecil Nixon was mentioned as participating in a Fairmont, California gathering of amateur magicians and slight-of-hand artists where he presented "a Hindu mystery with a real professional finish," and in February of the following year at the "Golden Gate Assembly & Society of American Magicians" held in California's Hotel Oakland, where he apparently partnered with one Dr. George Compton to present "new deceptions."

In June of 1923, the syndicated feature to the right announced that Dr. Nixon (now dubbed "a lonesome professor") had created a successor to his 1919 Isis automaton, this one named "Galatea." Let's enjoy the following sensational --- and somewhat sordid, description of Galatea --- supposedly in Dr. Nixon's own words:

"Galatea, who plays upon a violin, has more accomplishments than even her elder sister Isis, who has already made a reputation as a zither player. How does she look? Galatea is a life-size figure of a woman. As contrasted with Isis, the dark Egyptian, she is a Nordic blond. The young woman, Miss Grace Carrol, who posed as a model for Galatea, is an American blond of Anglo-Dutch ancestry. So natural is the figure that as a distance of ten feet, she can be mistaken for a living woman. In her construction the union of art and science has been so carefully studied and applied that the automaton exhibits, while in action, the many graceful movements of a human violin player."

"Galatea has the power to breathe --- air passes up through the nostrils and the chest expands. Her eyes move in a natural manner, and the flash of color on her cheeks deepens. She smiles, revealing her teeth. Both limbs and feet move slightly and shift their position during the playing of the violin. The entire coordination of these various gestures and movements provides the illusion of life."

Amidst all this fanciful nonsense in the article, which more than once hints at the fact that Galatea's true virtues might include more than just playing a violin, is one genuinely disturbing aspect. To quote the article directly:

"It had begun to be whispered about San Francisco, meantime, that the anonymous young woman who had posed for 'Isis' died a mysterious death. Her place was taken by Miss Grace Carrol, a beautiful girl who, disdaining the sinister superstition that the job was 'haunted,' stood undraped in inspiring, though tedious, attitudes for hours while Dr. Nixon modeled 'Galatea.' What caused the first model's death? This was a question which the California newspapers took quite seriously and to which they donated some space. The episode was gravely discussed in print. Indeed, the San Francisco Call (?) devoted a long first-page article to Dr. Nixon and his mechanical 'daughters.'"

Strong stuff, but I suspect that it's all a product of Nixon's fertile imagination and penchant for the bizarre --- that not only was there never a model who suffered a "mysterious death," but that there were never any models involved at all, as I could find no mention of any such instance or indeed mention of Dr. Nixon himself, between 1919's introduction of "Isis" and the 1923 feature on "Galatea."

Here, it's April of 1937 and Dr. Nixon is in newspapers again, looking eerily identical to his 1919 image --- which may well be the most jolting aspect of all. We see him with his zither-playing Isis of 1919 --- who's used the intervening years to learn (it's said) a repertoire of 3,000 songs.

But what of the eye-fluttering, supple figured "Galatea" of 1923 --- modeled by the brave and blond Jean Carrol?

The 1937 article concludes with: "Newest project of Dr. Nixon is a female automaton that will play a violin. Her head, already constructed, blushes violently when addressed in a loud voice."

Passing away on February 28th of 1962, Dr. Nixon's obituary is worth excerpting here:

"Dr. Cecil Nixon, a spare Victorian figure, lived in the past. He wore high button shoes, standup collars, frock coats, a pince nez. In his bleak house at 1555 Broadway, furnished with paintings and fine woods from wrecked Nob Hill mansions of San Francisco's Gold Rush days, he had played host to Houdini, Paderweski and Gertrude Lawrence."

"In bygone days, his doorbell sounded Taps. A dining room opened on voice command because of an electric connection inside the carved head of a Satyr. In recent years, he lived to himself. He bemoaned the fact he no longer could 'look out my window and see the carriages roll past.' "

"Gilbert Tonge, a retired artist who lived upstairs, said 'I tried to tell him about the astronauts but he didn't want to hear it.' Dr. Nixon died Tuesday, his age in doubt. Some said 82, some 88, some 90. He spoke of birth on the Virgin Islands to an Austrian mother and an Irish father. He never married. He had no religious faith. There will be no services."

In all, the real story here isn't the automaton Isis nor the unborn Galatea, but Dr. Cecil E. Nixon himself, a product of an earlier day who cloaked himself in self-invention and mechanical mystery to cling to a period where clockwork mechanisms --- and not astronauts --- were all the magic one needed to dream, gently deceive and thereby entertain.

I'm unsure what happened to Dr. Nixon's "Isis," or his remarkable house at 1555 Broadway in San Francisco for that matter, but he did bequeath a number of paintings by artist Thomas Hill depicting scenes of Yosemite to the Oakland Art Museum, where (presumably) they exist to this day.

The 1911 song "Oh, You Beautiful Doll" seems fitting here, and the familiar melody --- upon closer examination, is a remarkable composition, especially when heard as originally written and performed. Then too, the tune surely caught Dr. Cecil Nixon's fancy at one time or another --- possibly for a long time indeed.

"Oh, You Beautiful Doll" strikes me as nothing so much as the 1911 mating call of a strutting, preening and incredibly earnest young man transfixed by his lady love, with tricky shifts in tempo that rise and fall as he moves closer to his intended romantic target --- calming and reassuring her before ultimate capture results in a vocal and musical explosion of exultation and delight.

"Precious prize, close your eyes...
now we're going to visit lover's paradise.

Press your lips again to mine...
for love is King --- of everything!

If you ever leave me,
how my heart would ache ---

I want to hug you,
but I fear you'd break!"

Offered here are two renditions, the first a 1911 Edison cylinder recording by The American Quartet, and then an utterly faithful modern vocal re-creation that retains and perhaps even emphasizes the tremendous sense of passionate urgency originally inherent in the lyrics but long since obliterated by innumerable barbershop quartets in polystyrene straw hats and striped paper vests. These recordings deftly sweep away such distortions.

"Oh, You Beautiful Doll" (1911)

"Oh, You Beautiful Doll" (Modern Re-Creation)

Another example of a 1911 tune that has been warped by the passage of time is "Melancholy," which quickly became known as "My Melancholy Baby," and then ultimately depicted as the cheesiest of old chestnuts to be sung by inebriates in low dives at closing time.

When heard in it's original incarnation though, it's a sweetly plaintive lover's ballad with ragtime touches that speaks of lonely scenes in a moonlit garden redolent of heliotrope, never once suggesting the cloud of stale tobacco smoke stale beer that clings to it now.

Again, two versions --- the first a 1915 vocal by Walter Van Brunt, and then a spot-on instrumental modern era re-creation.

"Melancholy" (1915) Walter Van Brunt
"Melancholy" (1911) Modern Re-Creation


Lovely though the poster for the 1930 First National film "Playing Around" pictured left is (despite the fact that the figure representing Alice White bears only a passing resemblance to the actress and those depicting William Bakewell and Chester Morris almost none at all!) it serves here to simply introduce two songs featured in Alice White's first all-talkie, "Broadway Babies" released early in 1929.

"Playing Around" ought not be overlooked by fans of early sound films however, for while neither a musical or comedy it contains elements of both and --- most surprising of all, depicts Alice White in one of her most polished and pleasing of films although she's yet again cast as a thrill seeking but innocent girl who learns, too late, the error of her ways. Featuring a remarkable "Best Legs" contest set in a restaurant that's as amusing as it is unusual, and great work by Chester Morris and the always tightly wound William Bakewell, the TCM print also includes the film's original exit music, over which is seen a highly effective and entirely unexpected (and to my knowledge, unique) montage of still frames from the film prepared by some unknown person with the sort of loving attention and care that's usually absent in presentation of early sound films today.

1929's "Broadway Babies" featured three tunes, "Broadway Baby Dolls," "Wishing and Waiting For Love" and "Jig-Jig-Jig-A-Loo," the latter of which wasn't (to my knowledge) commercially recorded.

As rendered here by the California Ramblers for the expiring Edison phonograph company in early 1929, here is:

"Wishing And Waiting For Love" (1929)

"Broadway Baby Dolls" (1929)


Another pair of tunes from another First National musical, this time 1930's "Spring Is Here," which --- at least for me, has always been difficult film to warm up to, although it's hard to pinpoint exactly why. For one, it never "opens up" and leaves it's stage-bound house and garden setting, and some of the characterizations --- chief among them those by Louise Fazenda and Inez Courtney, can be tiresome if not altogether unappealing. Ford Sterling, as the exasperated father of this pre-screwball comedy era family comes off best. Skilled a vocalist as Bernice Claire is, she doesn't so much interact with the other performers as merely wait to speak or sing on cue, and then too --- while others frequently wax poetic over the Rodgers & Hart compositions heard in the film, they've always seemed discordant, shrill and overly clever in a showy fashion.

If anything, perhaps the real value of "Spring Is Here" is that it features three quite different male performers in supporting roles --- all key figures in early talkies and musicals, here at various points in their careers. For Lawrence and Alexander Gray, their early talkie glory days were fast fading --- while for Frank Albertson, a career that would last into the 1960's was just beginning. Perhaps the back-story behind "Spring Is Here," and the myriad of careers --- ranging from wildly successful to those that ended in obscurity --- is what casts a pall over the film for me in the end. Surely I'd be better off sometimes not dwelling on such things!

Two recordings by Jimmie Noone and His Apex Club Orchestra from the score of "Spring Is Here," are offered next --- both recorded in February of 1930, and capturing the melancholy aura the film inexplicably holds --- if not only for me, then perhaps for you too.

"Cryin' for the Carolines" (1930)

"Have A Little Faith In Me" (1930)

December 12th of 1924 was "Georgie Price Day" in the phonograph department of a Davenport, Iowa department store --- a day set aside to honor the youthful star of "The Passing Show" who'd come a long way by 1924 --- and who'd travel further still in the coming years.

George Price (also Georgie Price and George E. Price) was a protege of the decidedly amazing Gus Edwards (a man who's astounding career is deserving of the print exploration that has, to my knowledge, eluded it so far) who trained, nurtured and then let loose upon the world the likes of Eddie Cantor, George Jessel, Lillian Lorraine, Eddie Buzzell, the Duncan Sisters, Herman Timberg, Lila Lee, Armida, Jeanie MacPherson, dance director Sammy Lee, Charles King, Bert Wheeler, Johnny Hines, Ona Munson and many others.

Georgie Price was paired with Lila Lee early on (modified newsprint photo left) and when the two struck out on their own, they formed a successful vaudeville partnership --- billed as "Georgie and Cuddles," that lasted until Cuddles entered pictures, at which point Georgie focused on forming a solo personality and act --- which he did, swiftly and successfully. If you imagine a cross between Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson and George Jessel, you'll have a fair idea of Georgie Price --- and that, in part, may have been why he never reached the heights of fame that the others did, for there really wasn't any one thing to distinguish him from the others. Indeed, the fact that his act would include impersonations of Jolson and Cantor couldn't in retrospect have helped much, and only further muddled matters.

But, when heard or seen on his own --- when not impersonating, Price's talent is evident, as is his performing persona --- that of a brash but somewhat coy and clumsy young fellow. In the end, he appears to be one of Gus Edwards' very few graduates who never quite managed to escape his origins. It's reported that when he turned up at Ziegfeld's office in the late 1920's, announcing himself as "George Price," Ziegfeld refused to see him, saying he knew no George Price --- but did know someone named "Little Georgie," and then inquired if the latter person would care to see him or not.

One of Price's early musical successes was 1921's "Angel Child," the sheet music for which is pictured here, and which can be listened to --- sadly without Price's vocal or vocal of any kind for that matter, in a 1922 Edison cylinder recording by The Broadway Dance Orchestra:

"Angel Child" (1922)

Price had numerous recordings for Victor throughout the mid-1920's, including "Morning Will Come" from the Al Jolson stage success "Bombo," which can be heard next. While not precisely an impersonation of Jolson, there's little doubt of the influence!

"Morning Will Come" - from "Bombo" (1923)



Price would really hit his stride however with another recording from 1923. "Barney Google," arrived on the scene at precisely the right time to capture and cash-in on the public's fondness for the similarly titled newspaper comic strip of the day, a strip who's title and characters were deftly licensed and marketed for all manner of merchandise, including touring stage companies --- and the public leaped on the chance to connect a melody with the beloved characters, resulting in perhaps Price's biggest recording success --- but also one, like almost every other, that seemed to hinge upon the success of someone or something else.

"Barney Google" (1923)

By the late 1920's, Georgie Price again attempted to re-invent and re-introduce himself although like previous attempts, he couldn't adopt the name "George Price" without being referred to as "Georgie" or "Little Georgie" in the press or likely by anyone who knew him.

Proving that there's no such thing as bad publicity, then as now, Price made sure that newspapers were alerted to the fact he underwent surgery to downsize and pin-back his ears, and news readers in September of 1929 were treated to this syndicated wire image of a doleful looking Price resting abed following his medical ordeal! The move would pay off in the press for months to come, with Price receiving mentions in countless gossip columns that mentioned the fact that Harry Richman had underwent surgery to trim his nose, and old timer Raymond Hitchcock had submitted to a procedure to erase at least some of his many, many years.


In 1929, Price appeared in two sound short subjects, Vitaphone's "Dont Get Nervous," and for Columbia, "Station B.U.N.K." which is seen here accompanying the Fox film "A Song of Kentucky."

"Station B.U.N.K" allowed Price the opportunity to trot out his vocal and comic talents to good effect, although his impressions of Jolson, Cantor and Will Rogers are difficult to appreciate sans his mobile face, expressive dark eyes and small, lithe frame.

"Station B.U.N.K." - 1929

As a performer, Georgie Price might have never been the break-out, immediately identifiable performer he could have been had he developed a different style early on, but his career and life remained undeniably successful, with Price ultimately becoming President of the American Guild of Variety Artists, and --- perhaps most worthy of all, as emcee for all manner of charitable fund-raisers and as spokesman for retired vaudevillians.

Heard as incidental music in "Station B.U.N.K." is the wildly popular tune "I've Got A Feeling I'm Falling," and although given a parody title in keeping with the short's setting, it's inclusion and brief vocalization by Price comes as a surprise, as it usually is when a popular tune unexpectedly turns up in a non-related film of the period. "I've Got a Feeling I'm Falling" would also figure heavily in the scoring for the part-talking Universal Collegians two-reeler "Flying High" of 1929, come to think of it.

Just such an instance occurs late in the length of Universal's 1929 "Broadway," a film that featured a good many original tunes specifically prepared for it, but which utilizes a pop tune of the day, "My Sin" in a key dramatic sequence as underscoring. Given the dark subject matter being discussed by the film's characters at the moment the tune is heard, the use of "My Sin" might be deemed as intended irony --- or not, but its appearance is worth highlighting here nonetheless:

Dialogue and Music Excerpt - "Broadway" (1929)

Speaking of "Broadway," readers who'd like to see something wonderful are urged to skip over to YouTube and type "Broadway 1929" in the search field. If it hasn't been yanked, you'll be treated to the final Technicolor moments of the film, that have been joined up, by some inventive and caring fan, with music from a theatrical medley recording from the film. While not entirely effective, it's a heck of a lot more care and attention than has been bestowed upon the film by it's present owners and archivists, to whom the thought of pairing surviving silent Technicolor image with surviving audio has escaped them entirely over these many years --- leaving us with two incomplete versions, one sound missing it's final reel --- and one silent, with fragments of the original Technicolor final reel intact. An example of an astounding lack of interest and/or just plain apathy, but an equally predictable one insofar as early sound films are concerned.

"My Sin" is a fine tune all by itself --- without dead bodies littering nightclub office floors, so here's Ben Selvin's fine 78rpm rendition, recorded in April of 1929, with vocal.

"My Sin" (1929)

A sin of quite another kind, albeit still musical, occurs when a film like Lon Chaney's 1928 "Laugh Clown Laugh," which originally featured a skillful and memorable theme song, is bestowed with a new score --- a merely serviceable one at best, and the tune that was so firmly linked with the film for generations of those who originally viewed it, is simply ignored and tossed aside in favor of an entirely new interpretation, invariably deemed "fresh and innovative" in puff publicity pieces connected with the film and its new score. It's to the credit of the film itself and, of course, Chaney that "Laugh Clown Laugh" remains solid fare today no matter what soundtrack is hung upon it, but we must --- I believe --- be a bit more careful in what we dispose of in our rush to make proven successes seem "fresh and innovative" for a new audience of questionable size and even more questionable sense of film history. Preservation, and not alteration, is what's needed.

"Laugh Clown, Laugh" (1928) Waring's Pennsylvanians


The lyrics of "Laugh Clown, Laugh" speak of three actors in life's play --- the Lover, the Dreamer and the Clown. In a roundabout fashion, I think the subjects featured in this post touched upon all three --- OK, somewhat, that is!

To close this post, I'll leave you with a bit of image and sound of the sort I find irresistible and easily lose myself in --- perhaps too often. A view of the park fronting New York's City Hall, a bone chilling, rain swept evening, at the very dawn of the 20th Century --- and sound that eerily suits the image, providing a moment of drifting reverie of what once was, and what never was.

"New York City - Dawn of the 20th Century"

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Dr. Cecil Nixon, Magician - 22 February 1918

Newspaper Ad - Charleston, WV - 6 October 1929

"Broadway" Contest - Charleston, WV - October 1929

Gus Edwards syndicated feature story - 22 November 1930

"Barney Google" Stage Presentation - Elyria, Ohio - 26 September 1923


Georgie Price - Victor Record Release - 10 May 1923

Georgie Price shares vaudeville billing with chimpanzee, Syracuse NY - January 1929

MGM's "Leo" on tour - Ironwood, Michigan - 31 July 1929

Jazz on the Radio - 1929

An Unfortunate Incident - 11 November 1920 - Oneonta, New York
"Then keep your darned old store!"

Not the scene of the crime! Image submitted by reader Joe Thompson

Entrance to the Pan-American Exposition Exhibit,
The Buffalo Historical Society Annex - Buffalo, NY
Image submitted by reader DanJK

Only surviving structure from the Pan-American Exposition
Buffalo, NY - Image submitted by reader DanJK

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