Men o’ War is the breeziest of Laurel & Hardy’s early sound shorts (it was their third). It has plenty of delightful visual humor and just enough dialogue to make the ridiculous (i.e., L&H) sublime.
Maybe it doesn’t hurt that the movie establishes its setting with idyllic visuals depicting an old-fashioned day in the park — a grandstand band playing, people walking and canoeing. Into the scene walk a couple of inanely chatty women, followed by bachelor sailors Stan and Ollie. Surely two matches made in heaven.
It happens that one of the women has lost a pair of gloves, and Stan and Ollie have stumbled upon a pair of ladies’ underwear mistakenly dropped by a laundress. Stan and Ollie jump to the predictably wrong conclusion and have quite an interesting introductory conversation with the women.
Eventually the mistake is tactfully rectified, and the quartet go to a soda fountain, where the pair find that Stan has only 15 cents to spare for four 5-cent drinks. This results in a reprise of a routine from Should Married Men Go Home?, rendered far funnier here thanks to some hilariously pedestrian dialogue. One of my favorite L&H non-sequitors occurs when Stan and Ollie do a painful tit-for-tat routine and Ollie helpfully tells the girls, “Just playing together,” as though this is how all sailors passed the time of day.
The movie’s weakest part — not painful, just disappointing — is the movie’s finale, where the quartet’s canoe wreaks havoc with other boaters. This tries very hard to be a Two Tars-like reciprocal-destruction routine, but it plays more like a collision course until it, like L&H’s canoe, finally sinks.
Olive Oyl runs a “health farm for children.” Olive and Popeye try to serve spinach to the kids, but they’re sick of it, and Popeye can’t convince them it’s good for their health. So he turns into Johnny Spinach-Seed, spreading spinach everywhere and making plants and animals bulk up. (Hey, are their steroids in that stuff?)
When one of the kids feeds spinach to a couple of emaciated cows, they turn into huge bulls and terrorize the kids. Popeye gets his fix of the green stuff, knocks out the bulls, and inspires the kids to eat their spinach. Soon enough, they’re miniature Popeyes tearing apart the countryside (was that what Popeye hoped to achieve?).
Another entry that’s more funny/cute than funny/ha-ha. Lock those kids up before they form a gang.
On a rating scale of 1 to 4 spinach cans, I give this cartoon:
It’s only one week away from our Beatles Film Blogathon, and I’m…well, if not embarrassed, than certainly humbled to say that we have only three blogger entrants thus far.
Only THREE? One less member than The Beatles themselves??
I hope that this blogathon — besides honoring both Ringo Starr’s 75th birthday and his recent induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame — will reflect the spirit of fun that The Beatles at their best provided us.
Although entries for the movies A Hard Day’s Night, Help!, and Let It Be are spoken for, there are still plenty of Beatles-related movies and music videos to blog about. Click on the blogathon’s banner (above) for more information about the ‘thon, and if you’re interested in blogging for it, please leave your blog’s name and URL, and the movie or video you want to blog about, in the “Comments” section below. Show your love of The Beatles by sharing it in our blogathon!
The community pool needs a life guard. Two locals (ahem) look through the peephole in the pool’s fence, see Olive Oyl doing a belly-flop, and decide that this is the bathing beauty they have to impress. (Eye of the beholder and all that.)
So Popeye and Bluto are allowed to compete for the job. If the vote was strictly based on their rendition of the title tune, Popeye (complete with “Mammy!” finish) would win in an instant, but Olive jeers at Popeye because of his old-fashioned bathing suit (and she’s the looker, so she should know).
The typical Popeye-and-Bluto whizzing contest is enhanced by the Fleischers’ as-always-stunning back- and fore-grounds, and elaborate swim stunts, most of which would put your local lifeguard to shame. At cartoon’s end, Popeye is the lifeguard, having turned Bluto into a human fountain after duking it out with him underwater.
On a rating scale of 1 to 4 spinach cans, I give this cartoon:
The following is my contribution to the Classic Movie History Project Blogathon, a blog project that is so epic, it took three blogs to host it! (Click on the appropriate blog name [to follow] to read each section of the blogathon.)
Movies Silently is covering the silent-film era; Once Upon a Screen is covering cinema’s “Golden Age” of 1930 to 1952 (to which I am making my blog contribution); and Silver Screenings is covering the “Modern Era” of 1953 to 1975. Also, please give a round of applause to Flicker Alley, the blogathon’s sponsor!
And now, our feature presentation:
Prologue.
Act I: At War with the Producers.
At the beginning of Laurel & Hardy’s movie Block-Heads (1938), Stan and Ollie are part of an army company in World War I that is preparing to go “over the top.” Private Stan has been ordered to stay behind and guard the trench until further notice. Stan quietly tells Ollie, “Gee, I wish I was going with ya. Take care of yourself, won’t ya?”
Ollie kindly replies, “Don’t worry about me, Stan. I’ll be back. We’ll all be back.”
This is simply the beginning of an hour-long, typically silly romp with Stan and Ollie. But the real Laurel & Hardy couldn’t have guessed how prescient those words would be.
Since the beginning of Laurel & Hardy’s success as a comedy team in 1927, their movies’ producer, Hal Roach (above, center), had kept Stan and “Babe” (as Hardy was affectionately known off-screen) under separate, overlapping annual contracts. In other words, when Stan’s contract was due to expire, Babe’s contract would still have another year to run, and vice versa. Roach later admitted that this was his way of keeping power over the comedy duo.
Upon the completion of Block-Heads, Stan left the Roach Studios amidst a flurry of lawsuits going back and forth between Roach and Laurel for various reasons. Due to the animosity between the two men, it was widely believed that Block-Heads might be the last-ever Laurel & Hardy movie. Meanwhile, Babe remained under contract with Roach. Publicly, Roach did his best to appear nonchalant about the separation.
In the 1920’s, Harry Langdon was a shining silent-film comedian, at one point rivalling Chaplin, Keaton, and Lloyd in terms of popularity and box-office. By the late ‘20s, Langdon’s star had fallen, and in the ‘30s, he was appearing in minor short subjects for Hal Roach and working as a gag writer for him. (He contributed to Block-Heads.)
Roach bought the rights to a short story that he turned into a feature film titled Zenobia. The movie featured Babe in a major role as a country doctor, and Langdon as more or less Babe’s sidekick.
The movie is set in the Old South and plays like a low-rent Gone with the Wind, but its supposed appeal was in its “teaming” of Langdon and Hardy. However, the duo shared very few scenes together, and Babe alone was responsible for the few scenes in the movie that worked.
After Zenobia bombed with the critics and the public, Roach realized where the box-office appeal lay. On April 8, 1939, attorneys representing Roach and Laurel worked together to drop all legal action between the two men, and on that same date, Stan and Babe signed separate but concurrent one-year contracts with Roach.
At the same time, a former musical producer named Boris Morros decided he was to become a movie producer and wanted to make his debut with Laurel & Hardy. Roach agreed to loan out the comedy duo for Morros’ production The Flying Deuces.
Ironically, Deuces was directed by Edward Sutherland, who had produced Zenobia under Roach’s auspice. Roach had nothing good to say about Sutherland’s work, and in turn, Sutherland later summed up his work on The Flying Deuces by stating that he’d “rather work with a tarantula” than with Stan Laurel again.
The most likely reason for Sutherland’s surly attitude was that, until Laurel & Hardy were forced to make movies via the Studio System in the 1940’s, Stan Laurel was always the uncredited director of Laurel & Hardy comedies, no matter who sat in the director’s chair. Even though it was made outside of the Roach Studios, The Flying Deuces was no exception.
The movie began life as a script from Alfred Schiller, a writer hired by Borros. Schiller appeared to understand little about the delicate characterizations of Stan and Ollie. He wrote them as being wiseguy rivals for the same girl, and with Ollie saying nasty things such as, “Go on, beat it, Frog!” to a French gentleman.
Stan was not happy with this script but, as he and Babe were in the midst of making the Roach feature film A Chump at Oxford while the Deuces script was being prepared, the most he could do was editorialize in writing. When Stan would come to something in the script that he didn’t like or was out-of-character, he’d cross it out and write in the margins, “OUT. OUT. OUT.” Later, after Stan watched an early cut of the film, he submitted five pages of “Cutting Notes” to the movie’s editor. Thus, The Flying Deuces was the only non-Roach-produced L&H film in which Stan was allowed as much creative control as he’d had at the Roach Studios.
Eventually, the movie became so much like Old Home Week that it was practically an ersatz Roach production. Stan insisted to producer Morros on having Roach veterans Charley Rogers and Harry Langdon on the movie’s writing staff. Art Lloyd, whose photography at Roach’s aided in making Stan look child-like — “Wash me out, Artie!” Stan would insist, “No shadows!” — photographed Deuces as well. And Roach repertory players Sam Lufkin, Arthur Housman, Rychard Cramer, and (most memorably) James Finlayson were commandeered for the movie.
Act II: Love Is In the Air.
(This paragraph = SPOILER ALERT 1) The movie’s main plotline has Stan and Ollie on a cook’s tour of Paris, where Ollie falls in love with a beautiful local girl named Georgette (Jean Parker). Georgette strings Ollie along, never telling him that she is already married. When Ollie proposes to Georgette, she politely but firmly declines. At first, Ollie is so heartbroken that he tries to commit suicide (and drag Stan along with him!). But at the last moment, a local officer (Reginald Gardner) convinces Ollie to join the Foreign Legion to help him forget his past love. Stan, of course, tags along.
In real life, the movie resulted in a much happier ending for the twice-divorced Babe. When shooting on The Flying Deuces began on July 22, 1939, Babe and the others were introduced to the movie’s script girl, Virginia Lucille Jones. Stan eventually liked Lucille’s work so much that he brought her back to work on A Chump at Oxford and the follow-up L&H feature Saps at Sea.
Babe had thought his relationship with Lucille was strictly professional. But one day during work on Saps at Sea, Lucille tripped and fell on a rolled-up carpet, hit her head against one of the cameras, and landed in the hospital. Suddenly, Babe realized he had feelings for Lucille. The duo’s courtship began by Babe sending Lucille a box of roses and a note wishing her a speedy recovery.
Things blossomed from there, and eventually Babe proposed to Lucille before they’d even been out on a date. Lucille was not completely adverse to marrying Babe but was still unsure until she talked to her mother, who told her what a nice gentleman she thought Babe was. Lucille accepted Babe’s proposal; they went out on their first date on New Year’s Eve, 1939, and they married on March 7, 1940, the marriage lasting until Babe’s death in 1957.
Act III: The Producer Who Came in from the Cold.
The Flying Deuces’ biggest behind-the-camera surprise: Laurel & Hardy, and the rest of the movie’s cast and crew, had no idea that they were working with a spy. Producer Boris Morros, having emigrated with his Russian family to America in 1922, became a Soviet spy in 1934, at one point using a sheet-music company he owned as a cover for Soviet espionage. In 1947, Morros became a counterspy for the FBI. In 1960, Morros co-wrote the screenplay for Man on a String, a movie loosely based on Morros’ spy exploits. Ernest Borgnine played the Morros role.
Anyone who has seen Laurel & Hardy’s 1931 featurette Beau Hunks won’t be much surprised by The Flying Deuces, which is an expanded version of the same storyline. The same actor, Charles Middleton (shown above, and best known to ‘30s movie buffs as Ming the Merciless in Universal’s Flash Gordon serials), even plays the French Legion commandant in both movies. (Middleton also played a villain in Laurel & Hardy’s feature film Pack Up Your Troubles [1932] and their short subject The Fixer Uppers [1935].)
The caricature of Laurel & Hardy in the movie’s first scene was drawn by Harry Langdon.
The movie features two of the duo’s all-too-rare but delightful musical outings. In the first, Ollie sings “Shine On, Harvest Moon,” and Stan does an eccentric soft-shoe dance to the music.
The second number is far more fantasy-like. (SPOILER ALERT 2) At one point, Stan and Ollie are to be shot at sunrise by a Foreign Legion firing squad. As they await their fate in a prison cell, a bored Stan plucks at his bed’s springs and discovers that they sound musical. With that, he pulls up the bedsprings and, harp-like, proceeds to play “The World Is Waiting for the Sunrise” on the springs a la Harpo Marx. (The following photo and paragraph = SPOILER ALERT 3)
Lastly, in real life, Stan Laurel believed in reincarnation, but nothing was above satirization for Stan, even his own beliefs. The climax of The Flying Deuces features The Boys trying to pilot an out-of-control airplane; eventually, the plane crashes. Stan survives, but we see Ollie ascending to heaven. In the movie’s epilogue, Stan, now a lonely vagabond, happens upon and happily reunites with Ollie, who has come back to life as a horse (complete with his toothbrush mustache).
Closing Credits.
A major source for this article was Laurel & Hardy: The Magic Behind the Movies (1987, Moonstone Press), a delightful biography by Randy Skretvedt. Whether you are a hardcore Laurel & Hardy buff or you are just starting out on your “journey” with Stan and Ollie, this book will provide an endless source of inspiration and delight.
We hope that this article has provided you with an adequate education of Laurel & Hardy’s contribution to 1939 American cinema!
Buying a new arm at the Limb shop. Image: cinecouch.com
We could hardly wait to share an obscure six-minute film with you.
Get this: Here is a film that was made in 1908, during the Nickleodeon period (1905-1915), and it feels as fresh and original as many indie short films produced today.
Some background: Before movies became the blockbuster form of entertainment they were before the pre-gaming era, films were shown as one attraction in a vaudeville (variety) show. However, in 1905, there was a shift in the entertainment industry, when the first Nickelodeon theatre opened in Pittsburg. Price of admission: 5 cents.
Suddenly movies became the dominant form of entertainment. As vaudeville theatres were converted to nickelodeon theatres, the programs changed, too. Instead of the focus on live acts, the focus was now on the films, although singing and some vaudeville acts still accompanied these films. These programs lasted between 10 minutes and an hour.
The following is my entry in the “…And Scene!” Blogathon, hosted by the ethereal Sister Celluloid at her blog from June 25-28, 2015. Click on the banner above, and read bloggers’ critiques of their favorite single movie scenes!
For this blogathon, I have chosen to write about “Lookin’ for Trouble,” a musical number performed by Jane Russell in a notorious Howard Hughes production, The French Line. This scene has always stuck with me for many reasons — a number of which will seem obvious once you actually view the number (embedded below), but for some subtler reasons as well.
At the time of this movie, Howard Hughes owned RKO Radio Pictures and was in the process of running the studio that had produced King Kong, Citizen Kane, and some classic Astaire-Rogers musicals into the ground. Hughes had been obsessed with Russell’s (admittedly impressive) bustline ever since he’d first met her and did his best to exploit it — first in The Outlaw (1943, Russell’s movie debut), and now in this movie.
Here, Russell plays Mary Carson, a wealthy Texas oil heiress who is unlucky in love. Her suitors either want her for her fortune, or they get intimidated by the thought of a woman with power. Determined to find herself a man, Mary poses as the model of dress designer Annie Farrell (Mary McCarthy) while onboard an ocean liner heading for France. On the ship, Mary meets Pierre (Gilbert Roland), and complications ensue, primarily because Pierre seems to want her for her body in the same way as previous men wanted her for her money.
At one point, Annie holds a fashion show on the ship to display her clothing designs. Mary appears in the show very demurely at first, wearing a white gown that covers her from head to toe. But in record time, Mary sheds the gown to reveal herself in a barely-there bathing suit that New York Times movie reviewer Bosley Crowther aptly described as “a seven-ounce glorified bikini.”
Toing!!
From there, Mary goes on to display and shake everything God gave her in a rousing musical number titled “Lookin’ for Trouble.” Unlike Russell’s charming number “Ain’t There Anyone Here for Love?” from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (the movie which inspired Hughes to create this musical), here there’s no subtext whatsoever. Like Russell’s physique, the song is in-your-face; Mary makes it quite clear, albeit in 1955 terms, that she’s out to get laid.
Russell spent two pages of her autobiography describing the, er, trouble involved in getting this number committed to film. Initially, Hughes tried to get her to do the number while wearing only a real two-piece bikini. At the time, bikinis were worn only in France.
Russell wrote that when she tried on the bikini, “I stood before my horrified camera crew, feeling very naked.” (However, Russell’s embarrassment over the bikini did not extend to her autobiography, which contains the following photo of Russell wearing (a) said bikini, and (b) a s**t-eating grin.)
Does this look like an embarrassed woman to you?
In any case, Russell refused to film the number until she was given wardrobe that covered her up a little better; hence, the seven-ounce bikini substitute.
The bikini photo is a perfect metaphor for the musical number that inspired it. In her book, Russell explains how her conscience bothered her while performing this number:
“The only problem, as I saw it, was that it was never made clear in the story that the millionairess did the naughty number to get even with her fella [sic], to make him mad. I begged them to put in one short scene to show some motive for it. They all looked at me like I was bananas…Finally, a scene was shot. No film was in the camera, I’m sure, for I never saw it, nor did anyone else.”
And yet, watch Russell perform “Lookin’ for Trouble.” This does not look like a woman who is ashamed to be throwing her fulsome body all over the screen (and the movie was originally released in 3-D). Even though the number is not as sexually explicit as anything in modern-day cinema, it quite clearly makes the point that Russell’s character is looking for…well, dare we replace the word “trouble” with S-E-X?
Ehh…could be.
It seems to me that this number, like much of Russell’s movie career, is trying to have it both ways: Getting men to go popeyed with lust, while Russell tells us not to read anything nasty into her enthusiastic shimmying and hip-grinding. In any case, the only way Russell could display any more of her sexuality in a movie is if she had gone all the way and gotten…very naked.
We’re so excited for this blogathon we can hardly contain ourselves! The post below is from the fabulous Fritzi at Movies, Silently, who is the brains behind this outfit.
I’m excited. Boy, am I excited! Just a few days remain until the Classic Movie History Project Blogathon gets underway.
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