As noted in the essay on “King Kong” (1933) this week, Robert Armstrong has a scene where he briefly whistles a bit of “St. Louis Blues.” This is a follow-up perhaps to his remark, “Blondes are scarce around here,” when it is noticed that the natives are fascinated by Fay Wray. The song’s lyric, “If it wasn’t for powder and her store-bought hair, that man of mine wouldn’t go nowhere,” is possibly the cue for his cavalier whistling of this blues song. Kong is clearly taken by Wray, more than she is “taken” by him.
The song “St. Louis Blues” with its famous first line, “I hate to see evening sun go down,” has been featured in a number of films, most effectively in “Ladies They Talk About” (1933) where it is played against the opening credits and at the end, and sung by Etta Moten in the prison sequence to evoke hard-bitten women of loose morals and rough lives.
Possibly first featured in a 1929 short called “St. Louis Blues,” the song is sung and dramatized by legendry blues singer Bessie Smith, reportedly chosen by its composer W.C. Handy for the job. It features an all-African American cast, and bit of it can be seen here. Miss Smith’s rendition is raw, tortured, and though the rest of the cast in the café sing with her, they do not notice her pain. Only at the end we see the anguished expression of the bartender.
The song was also featured in the other films called “St. Louis Blues” made in 1939 and in 1958, both with unrelated stories. The last was a biography of Handy starring Nat “King” Cole and Pearl Bailey.
The tune is haunting, rhythmic, captures a time and a mood, and it’s interesting to see how many times and in how many ways it has been used in film. Can you think of any others?
Tomorrow, a special reprise of a blog entry on director William Wyler for the “Wyler-thon” going on at the GoatdogBlog site from the 21st through the 23rd. Stop by this site for other blogs on William Wyler’s films.
And, we’ll see you Monday. Have a great weekend.
Showing posts with label King Kong. Show all posts
Showing posts with label King Kong. Show all posts
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Robert Armstrong
Robert Armstrong was the kind of character actor who left an impression. He seemed to invent types, rather than play them. Carl Denham, the pushy, greedy, but always imaginative impresario who dragged King Kong back from the South Pacific to exploit as entertainment, and Max O’Hara, who tried to work similar magic with “Mighty Joe Young” were fellows acutely identified with the nimble talking Armstrong.
A much less enterprising, but still out for number one kind of guy was his character in “The Most Dangerous Game” (1932). The brother of the character played by Fay Wray, who later played his discovery Ann Darrow in “King Kong,” Martin Trowbridge was killed off early in the movie but still managed to stand out as one of the highlights of the film. He is a drunken fool, who disgusts the disciplined if utterly crazy host Count Zaroff with his dissolute ways and casual attitude toward hunting. He invites Zaroff, played memorably by Leslie Banks (see entry March 29th ) to go hunting in the Catskills, where the guides “will make the deers behave.”
Mr. Armstrong’s acting career began when left college for vaudeville and a touring stock company, and eventually made it to Hollywood just in time for the waning days of silent film. His smart aleck snappy delivery and comic timing was perfect for sound film and he made the transition easily, though “King Kong” was probably the most notable role he had. He never got out of B-movie parts, though he played a role against James Cagney in “Blood On the Sun” (1945), an interesting look at Japanese military in the days just before Pearl Harbor. Armstrong improbably played Colonel Hideki Tojo, but through this and other roles, and his eventual TV guest spots, one gets the feeling that the intrepid and exasperating spirit of Carl Denham never left him, and was always somehow just under the surface. It was a role he was born to play.
A much less enterprising, but still out for number one kind of guy was his character in “The Most Dangerous Game” (1932). The brother of the character played by Fay Wray, who later played his discovery Ann Darrow in “King Kong,” Martin Trowbridge was killed off early in the movie but still managed to stand out as one of the highlights of the film. He is a drunken fool, who disgusts the disciplined if utterly crazy host Count Zaroff with his dissolute ways and casual attitude toward hunting. He invites Zaroff, played memorably by Leslie Banks (see entry March 29th ) to go hunting in the Catskills, where the guides “will make the deers behave.”
Mr. Armstrong’s acting career began when left college for vaudeville and a touring stock company, and eventually made it to Hollywood just in time for the waning days of silent film. His smart aleck snappy delivery and comic timing was perfect for sound film and he made the transition easily, though “King Kong” was probably the most notable role he had. He never got out of B-movie parts, though he played a role against James Cagney in “Blood On the Sun” (1945), an interesting look at Japanese military in the days just before Pearl Harbor. Armstrong improbably played Colonel Hideki Tojo, but through this and other roles, and his eventual TV guest spots, one gets the feeling that the intrepid and exasperating spirit of Carl Denham never left him, and was always somehow just under the surface. It was a role he was born to play.
Monday, September 17, 2007
King Kong - Part 1
David O. Selznick, who produced such successful, but overladen hits like “Gone With the Wind” (1939) and “Since You Went Away” (1944) also produced a much leaner “King Kong” (1933), which has the distinction of being remarkably fast paced, imaginative, and as evocative of a place that never existed as any film of a place that did.
Reckless, driven movie director Carl Denham, played by Robert Armstrong, is the film’s catalyst. He is Ahab to Kong’s Moby Dick, but Carl Denham is less righteous and haunted than Captain Ahab. He is really more like Daffy Duck, pursuing a mound of jewels with dollar signs in his eyes. Mr. Armstrong gets to deliver the famous last lines of the film, “It wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast.” But he also gets other lines just as telling of his character and of the Depression era of this film. Warned that he must be careful with a movie actress in the wilds of his location shoot, Denham responds,
“I suppose there’s no danger in New York? Listen, there are dozens of girls in this town that are in more danger than they’ll ever see with me.”
Denham laments that his true-life adventure films are dismissed by the Hollywood critics. “Isn’t there any romance or adventure in the world without having a flapper in it?”
Interesting use of the word “flapper” carried over from the 1920s. Denham goes first to one jungle to find the girl for his film, New York City, and we see Times Square lit up at night. We meet the lovely Fay Wray whose haunting dark eyes explore the camera’s gaze from under the brim of a battered cloche hat.
“I’m on the level. No funny business,” Armstrong as Denham tells Miss Wray, and she, and we, immediately accept that he is being truthful. The amazing thing is, he is being truthful. He is a man obsessively wedded to his work. If he were not, he could never bring back the Eighth Wonder of the World.
For a love interest, Miss Wray is given instead the wooden Bruce Cabot, who is at first brusque and falls in love reluctantly. It’s nothing personal he tells her, it’s just that she’s a woman. We get the standard “Terry and the Pirates” stock images of a stereotyped Chinese galley cook, and Denham on board ship in a yachting cap and a white suit, to be replaced by a tropical kit, and a slouch hat that make him look a cross between Indiana Jones, Curious George’s Man in the Yellow Hat and Christiane Amanpour reporting from the field. But this is quite wonderful in a way, because this is Depression-era South Seas adventure, and if Denham didn’t look like The Great White Hunter, we’d be wondering exactly what he was doing there.
I get a kick where after their first wary encounter with the natives of the lost island, Denham flippantly whistles a chorus of “The St. Louis Blues.” And he remarks at their torches lighting up the black night in their ceremonial dance to pay homage to Kong, “Looks like the night before election.”
He has some terrific sets to get lost in, mostly left over from the previous year’s “The Most Dangerous Game” and Miss Wray, truly the best screamer in Hollywood as his bait for Kong. When she practices screaming in terror for Denham’s screen test of her on deck, we get an ominous sense of dread when Bruce Cabot’s character wonders, “What’s he think she’s really gonna see?”
See Part 2 of King Kong here.
Reckless, driven movie director Carl Denham, played by Robert Armstrong, is the film’s catalyst. He is Ahab to Kong’s Moby Dick, but Carl Denham is less righteous and haunted than Captain Ahab. He is really more like Daffy Duck, pursuing a mound of jewels with dollar signs in his eyes. Mr. Armstrong gets to deliver the famous last lines of the film, “It wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast.” But he also gets other lines just as telling of his character and of the Depression era of this film. Warned that he must be careful with a movie actress in the wilds of his location shoot, Denham responds,
“I suppose there’s no danger in New York? Listen, there are dozens of girls in this town that are in more danger than they’ll ever see with me.”
Denham laments that his true-life adventure films are dismissed by the Hollywood critics. “Isn’t there any romance or adventure in the world without having a flapper in it?”
Interesting use of the word “flapper” carried over from the 1920s. Denham goes first to one jungle to find the girl for his film, New York City, and we see Times Square lit up at night. We meet the lovely Fay Wray whose haunting dark eyes explore the camera’s gaze from under the brim of a battered cloche hat.
“I’m on the level. No funny business,” Armstrong as Denham tells Miss Wray, and she, and we, immediately accept that he is being truthful. The amazing thing is, he is being truthful. He is a man obsessively wedded to his work. If he were not, he could never bring back the Eighth Wonder of the World.
For a love interest, Miss Wray is given instead the wooden Bruce Cabot, who is at first brusque and falls in love reluctantly. It’s nothing personal he tells her, it’s just that she’s a woman. We get the standard “Terry and the Pirates” stock images of a stereotyped Chinese galley cook, and Denham on board ship in a yachting cap and a white suit, to be replaced by a tropical kit, and a slouch hat that make him look a cross between Indiana Jones, Curious George’s Man in the Yellow Hat and Christiane Amanpour reporting from the field. But this is quite wonderful in a way, because this is Depression-era South Seas adventure, and if Denham didn’t look like The Great White Hunter, we’d be wondering exactly what he was doing there.
I get a kick where after their first wary encounter with the natives of the lost island, Denham flippantly whistles a chorus of “The St. Louis Blues.” And he remarks at their torches lighting up the black night in their ceremonial dance to pay homage to Kong, “Looks like the night before election.”
He has some terrific sets to get lost in, mostly left over from the previous year’s “The Most Dangerous Game” and Miss Wray, truly the best screamer in Hollywood as his bait for Kong. When she practices screaming in terror for Denham’s screen test of her on deck, we get an ominous sense of dread when Bruce Cabot’s character wonders, “What’s he think she’s really gonna see?”
See Part 2 of King Kong here.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Fay Wray - 100th Anniversary
Saturday marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of Fay Wray. Miss Wray holds a place of warm regard among fans of classic films, unusual for someone whose career was brief and made up almost entirely of B-movies. “King Kong” (1933) was her claim to fame, and throughout her long life she bemusedly gave credit to the big gorilla for making her famous.
Miss Wray began in silent films in the 1920s, in bit parts as maids and shop girls, and eventually appeared in many westerns as the damsel in the distress. She played the damsel with spirit, however. She also came to known as the “Queen of Scream” for her ability to belt out a blood curdling screech at the first sign of danger.
Her characters in “The Most Dangerous Game” (1932) (see entry March 29, 2007) and in “King Kong” were spunky girls, ready for adventure, but invariably terrorized by forces beyond her control. One was a madman and one was a big ape. The big ape was actually nice to her, but that didn’t keep her from screaming every time he tried to pick her up. Maybe he needed a better pick up line.
They were striking movies, and Miss Wray played a most human character in the middle of the impossible, standing in for us. We were anxious for her. Now, we cannot help but remember her fondly.
After her death in 2004, the Empire State Building, where her boyfriend King Kong toppled to his death, dimmed its lights in her honor. How many Oscar-winning top film stars were afforded such respect as this B-movie actress?
The 2005 remake of “King Kong” was dedicated in memory of Fay Wray, and she is referred to early in the film as one of the actresses Carl Denham, now played by Jack Black, wishes he could have gotten for his new project. Her career was evidently longer and carried more weight than even Miss Wray realized.
Miss Wray began in silent films in the 1920s, in bit parts as maids and shop girls, and eventually appeared in many westerns as the damsel in the distress. She played the damsel with spirit, however. She also came to known as the “Queen of Scream” for her ability to belt out a blood curdling screech at the first sign of danger.
Her characters in “The Most Dangerous Game” (1932) (see entry March 29, 2007) and in “King Kong” were spunky girls, ready for adventure, but invariably terrorized by forces beyond her control. One was a madman and one was a big ape. The big ape was actually nice to her, but that didn’t keep her from screaming every time he tried to pick her up. Maybe he needed a better pick up line.
They were striking movies, and Miss Wray played a most human character in the middle of the impossible, standing in for us. We were anxious for her. Now, we cannot help but remember her fondly.
After her death in 2004, the Empire State Building, where her boyfriend King Kong toppled to his death, dimmed its lights in her honor. How many Oscar-winning top film stars were afforded such respect as this B-movie actress?
The 2005 remake of “King Kong” was dedicated in memory of Fay Wray, and she is referred to early in the film as one of the actresses Carl Denham, now played by Jack Black, wishes he could have gotten for his new project. Her career was evidently longer and carried more weight than even Miss Wray realized.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
The Most Dangerous Game - 1932
The Most Dangerous Game (1932) makes the point that “less is more” in a film dependent on a little bit of psychology, a little bit of horror, a little bit of vodka, and a memorable journey in only 63 minutes.
The story of shipwreck survivors hunted for sport on the island “no bigger than a deer park” owned by a madman is by now well known and has been resurrected on several occasions.
It’s hard to discern just what alchemy provides the irresistible quality of adventure in this short movie, with a setting like a Terry and the Pirates cartoon. The hunter’s horn theme haunts the film, but what defines the study of hunters and the hunted, of civilization and savagery is illustrated in the most simple ways. The survivors share cocktails as they recount the harrowing tales of their shipwreck experiences to their mysterious but charming host, Count Zaroff, who entertains them with panache and dignity in his evening clothes. He is well educated, well read, and plays classical music on a grand piano in the great hall of his medieval fortress.
The movie really belongs to Leslie Banks, in only his second film, as Count Zaroff, who masterfully seduces the funny buffoon played by Robert Armstrong, the good guy and fellow hunter Joel McCrea, and the lovely Fay Wray, and most especially, the audience. Miss Wray probably owned a patent on the damsel in distress role. Her trying to warn McCrea’s character of her suspicions about Count Zaroff, as she purposely knocks over a drink onto McCrea, “I didn’t realize the DANGER,” is suspenseful, but futile.
What I love best about the film are the small touches used to illustrate big things and big ideas. McCrea discovers the depth of Zaroff’s madness and attempts to escape, but not before he takes the time to put on his tie. He is civilized, after all. When he meets Wray’s character to sneak away from their captivity, she is wearing an evening gown. Evidently no tea-length day dress will do. This is going to be an heroic escape, and they have to look their best.
Actually, McCrea’s tie comes in handy later as a trip line for his laboriously constructed Malay Dead Fall trap, which doesn’t work. Other traps fail to catch Zaroff as well, and one wonders if Miss Wray’s method of just screaming and running isn’t the best line of defense. However, soon their faces are shining with sweat, their clothes are dirty and torn, which makes a terrific contrast to their natty appearance earlier in the film. We believe their wretchedness more than if they had started out in combat gear.
The terrific sets are evocative of a time and place lost to civilization, and many of the sets were used on RKO’s King Kong, which also starred Wray and Armstrong, released the following year. It was the Depression, after all -- waste not, want not.
The danger for McCrea is death, and for Fay Wray, rape. As Zaroff bellows his mantra, “Kill, then love. When you have known that, you have known ecstasy.” It is a perverted philosophy, but deliciously believable in a character who dresses in white tie and tails, strokes the nasty scar on his forehead (which is intended to indicate to us his madness), though in this black and white film, no blood is ever required. We know the stakes. We don’t need to be hit over the head. We hang on for the ride, and the surprising ending.
******
Jacqueline T. Lynch is the author of Ann Blyth: Actress. Singer. Star. and Memories in Our Time - Hollywood Mirrors and Mimics the Twentieth Century. Her newspaper column on classic films, Silver Screen, Golden Memories is syndicated nationally. Her new book, a collection of posts from this blog - Hollywood Fights Fascism - is available here on Amazon.
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