The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

GETTING BACK AT And will all the Eves go wild when they read this! Adam was an actor when Eve was only a rib, opines Herb Howe. In today's panorama of film successes the women stars are put in the shade by men, children, and even deer and pumas By HERB HOWE, who has departed hastily for Russia m i N the Nudist bar of the Casino de Paree I got to thinking, as most everyone does, encircled by the leafless movie folk: Greta, Joan, Clark, Marlene, Gary, Mae, Will Hayes severely attired in a halo, in a frolicsome frieze of nude caricatures by Wynn. The thought that came to this clean young thinker (sixty if he's a day, the dirty dog) was how pinky it would be to return to the leafless innocence of Eden before The Fall. I mean before Eve extended the apple, which in the language of the flowers was equivalent to Mae West's "come up 'n' see me some time." Quick as scat a chorus seemed to chime from the frieze of sunkissed favorites: "That's just what we're doing, tra la, tra la." Boycotted by moralists, the Hollywood delicatesseners have dropped sex like a hot baked apple. Never subtle souls, they are not sure just where love leaves off and sex begins. But, then, are any of us? So, playing safe, they've sworn off women too, 'cept as pals. Purged of carnality, Hollywood turns to brotherly love, kiddie love and animal love, the latter purely platonic as between puma and doe. As a result, the screen grows honest. Not that sex is dishonest. Original Sin is a true Bible story. Trouble is scenarists think it still original and have been telling it over and over with various twists. Eventually they twisted it clear around. Instead of Eve luring Man with an apple, they had him tempting her with a penthouse. Instead of tragedy— and what could be more tragic than that first misstep which caused Man to go to work? — they served it as cocktail comedy. The Legion of Decency brought the tragedy back home. When the box office did a Brodie, the Hollywood rajahs began to believe the Bible was right and the old apple woman really was responsible for man's downfall. The big pash pomme they called "love interest" was no longer golden. They could see that what happened to Adam might happen to them. They might have to go to work. Th'ell with love interest. Eve got the bounce. Fun in a penthouse was fini. Paramount felt so strongly they titled Marlene's picture "The Devil Is a Woman." IT was a close call, this threat of eviction from the lush garden of Hollywood. The Eves were plainly to blame. Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Carole Lombard, Jean Harlow, Mae West, Marlene Dietrich — these were the consorters with the serpent according to the avenging furies. Gable and the other boys were merely victims, same as Adam. Not one male was held responsible for what Stepin Fetchit calls "impurities." Recognizing this, the producing pashas swiftly herded the houri back to purdah. The best films of the year are masculine. Clean, my men, clean. And, to the surprise of the old nibs, highly remunerative. "Chapayev" is hardly fair evidence because it is a product of godless Moscow which apparently has never been stung sex-sluggy by the old serpent and therefore has no Legion to guide it. However it does bring home the point. The film had a nine weeks Broadway record and its only amorous gesture is an adjutant's pass at a lady machine gunner who quickly cuffs him into a comrade. The charm of the film is its news reelism. The story is wholly factual and frays out at the end, as life does, without a hug. "The Lives of a Bengal Lancer," without being as adult or actual, is Hollywood's most manful attempt of the Reformation. You expect the story to blow up when Paramount's Panther Woman comes hipping over the Himalayas to snake Dick Cromwell off to Cocoanut Grove. Happily the falsity is fleeting. The only sentiment is the threemusketeers variety. Hollywood is not yet so grimly Russian it can dispense with all sentiment. Warner Brothers decanted the old buddy stuff for "Here Comes the Navy," "Flirtation Walk" and "Devil Dogs of the Air." You could grin and take it along with the side dish of girly pickalilly, because of the authentic performance of the U. S. Navy, West Point Cadets and U. S. Marines. These men doing real men's stuff never fail to enthrall the public. "David Copperfield" is a triumph through honest effort to keep faith with Dickens' characters. There wasn't a glamour gal in the footage and if there had been Edna Mae Oliver could have sniffed her out. "Ruggles of Red Gap" is another male triumph. True, it has that redoubtable femme fatale, ZaSu Pitts, but Mme. Pitts does not rely on sex appeal alone to earn that murmurous delight which her appearance evokes from every audience. Madame is gifted. The Legionnaires of Decency pilloried the Eves at a strategic hour. Their posturings in clown make-up, as obvious as old-time vampires', were getting nose-thumbs even from us wild boys of the road who do not exactly reek of virtue. The bromidic criticism of Mae West is that she can play only one character. By my computation, this is two more than the average sweetheart achieves. In film after film the babes trot forth the same accents and mannerisms. All they change is their clothes. Playing a Sadie Thompson they don burlesque outfits, when their own would serve better, stand with hands on hips and chew gum. The face remains beauty shoppe, the voice retains its culture as if to remind you that beneath the vulgar habiliments lurks a product of Miss Spence's school. The illusion is masque ball. 20 The New Movie Magazine, July, 1935