Thursday, February 26, 2015


You won't believe what you're about to see--the above eighteen second clip. I still don't and I've watched it like twenty times already. It's a candid view of a rehearsal on the set of the Marx Brothers 1930 film 'Animal Crackers' and it's shot in color. In it, Groucho stares at the camera then paces away, clearly bored. Harpo comes out, sans costume, wearing a bathrobe--no wig, no hat, nothin'. Only his singular grin and mad eyes identify him as Harpo. Margaret Dumont crosses camera right and she and Harpo rehearse their introduction, where she reaches for his hand and gets his horn instead.

And that's it. No information on why this exists, why it's in color, why they shot this rehearsal or what else they may have shot. Possibly it was a test of a color system and they rolled on whatever was happening at that moment (which was this rehearsal)? One of the sparse user comments says this scrap was found in an attic. If anyone has any other clues about this, please leave it in the comments section. This is truly one of the most astounding snippets of film I've ever seen. For eighteen seconds, you're on the set of 'Animal Crackers', seeing the real brothers and the whole sh-bang in the non art-deco black and white that we're used to. Lurid thought the colors are, they bring the whole thing to life in a shocking and delightful way.

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Wednesday, February 25, 2015


While watching 'A Day At The Races' this past weekend on TCM, I noticed a snippet of a song in the big finale, when everyone is strutting around the racetrack, waving their hands in the air and in general making horses asses of themselves. Groucho turns to Margaret Dumont, sings a bar of a song called "I've Got A Message From The Man In The Moon", then delivers one of the films better Groucho-isms: "I've got a confession to make. I really am a horse doctor. But marry me and I'll never look at another horse again." What was this little tidbit of a tune doing in there? Rechecking the opening credits, I heard the melody in the overture, thus making Groucho's quoting of it a reprise. But a reprise of what? A song that isn't in the movie? Bravely deciding to nerd-our rather than get some real work done, I dug in and discovered that two songs were cut from "A Day At the Races"--two songs which would have been much better left in, assuming that the big boring Winter Carnival scene was dropped. "I've Got A Message From The Man in the Moon" is a good, second-tier thirties love song, but apparently was one too many for the movie (the surviving love song, "Tomorrow Is Another Day", isn't nearly as much fun). The second was a Captain Spaulding-type number for Groucho called "Dr. Hackenbush." Neither, apparently, was filmed. However Allan Jones, the Zeppo of ADATR, did pre-record the first and the recording survives. Alas the person who posted it disabled embedding of it so you have to click here to listen to it. (Why does it piss me off when people do this on Youtube? It's not as if they haven't already violated copyright law by having posted it without permission to begin with).

But the real treat is the above video, created by a very interesting fellow named Noah Diamond, who is clearly a hard-core student of Marxiana (he actually has restored the long lost Marx show "I'll Say She Is" which I'd love to know more about). He took a 1965 Hollywood Palace performance of the song by Groucho and quite clerverly wove it into a recut of the scene it was supposed to appear in--the somewhat flat first appearance of Groucho at the Standish Sanitarium. Check it out. And I'm afraid I have to agree with a comment he makes on his opening scroll. ADATR is the beginning of the brothers decline and much staler than I remember it, with loads of silly plot and set-piece comedy sequences that are simply not inventive enough to sustain the long waits in between comedy scenes. The Thalberg formula for the Marxes--that it was better for them to be in a movie with a 'real' story than a 'funny' story (like the Paramount comedies)--hasn't worn at all well.

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Tuesday, February 24, 2015


Here's a nifty little twenty-five minute doc I found on Youtube about the making of "Some Like It Hot." Lemmon, Curtis and Wilder are in it, as well as the mysterious I.A.L Diamond, Wilder's writing partner and a man who eschewed any personal publicity, happily allowing Wilder to be the star attraction. There's home movie footage of the location shoot at the Coronado Hotel in San Diego, which doubled for the hotel that was supposed to be Florida, and a very nice and nonsensical evasion from Tony Curtis on the infamous story of what he said when he was asked what it was like kissing Monroe; "it's like kissing Hitler." Curtis actually attempts to spin it as something that was meant as a compliment. Uh, yeah.

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Monday, February 23, 2015


Above is posted one of the most notorious celebrity meltdown audio clips known to man. In it, William Shatner, while recording a voice-over, is asked for a second-take from the engineer in the booth. The request is not based on the grounds of faulty audio but on the engineers belief that Shatner has a better performance in him. There's no describing the cruelty of Shatner's response, so just listen and cringe. By the way, the recording comes from a re-playing of the tape on the Howard Stern show, so the cackling you hear in the background is coming from the Stern show and not from the studio in which the unfortunate incident occurred. Enjoy...

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Friday, February 20, 2015


The above clip, from the 1978 Science Fiction Film Awards (say what?) begins with Karen Black (remember her?) introducing Bernie Taupin (Elton John's lyricist--and must he ever get tired of having that appended to his name) who talks briefly about 'Rocket Man' before introducing William Shatner, who sings the song. Or doesn't really sing it--recites it is probably the best description. Of course this wasn't meant to be taken seriously. Unlike other posts from the past few weeks, we aren't watching somebody trying to do something seriously (singing) and lousing it up (Jerry, Jack, et al). Instead, here we're watching Shatner trying to do something ridiculous and lousing it up. It takes four long boring minutes for him to get through the song, with interminable pauses and cigarette suckings using up half the time. No one in the audience laughs--was it an empty house? Or were they truly perplexed at the not-funny, not-good, not-even-very-interesting performance? Shatner redefines the term Renaissance man--he's remarkable for doing so many different things so poorly. The acting, it turns out, is the least of it...

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Tuesday, February 17, 2015


Our next victim in our relentless search for 'Worst Record Made By An Actor Who Shouldn't Sing" is one of show-businesses most irritating personalities. I refer to the great William Shatner, who in 1967--while Star Trek was at its height--recorded an album called "The Transformed Man." (By the way, it was released by Decca Records, the people who brought you 'Jerry Lewis Just Sings'. Thanks, guys.) Shatner's 'signiture' style was heard for the first time on this abomination, that sort of spoken word thing he does with big pauses and dramatic flourishes and...and...well, listen to his 'take' on "Lucy In The Sky" and you'll feel the magic. As always with Shatner, though, he has that slightly shady way of perhaps putting you on--did he mean this as a straight-up attempt at a pop album? Or was he sending himself up, as he's taken to doing good-naturedly over the past decade or so? Sorry, but I think it's the former. Shatner has never seemed to me to be in on his own joke; he reminds me of a remark made by the famously cranky novelist John O'Hara about another crank novelist Sinclair Lewis. O'Hara thought Lewis was a much poorer writer than his reputation warranted and that people mistook the clumsiness of his characters and dialogue for witty, deadpan satire. "Once they called him a satirist, he woke up and said 'okay, I'm a satirist.' I have a feeling that Shatner, savvy show-biz operator that he is, realized he was being laughed at and decided to go along with it. It certainly didn't hurt Sinclair Lewis, and Shatner is alive and kicking and still relevant in his own queer way. Click on the above and enjoy Big Bill and his encounter with The Beatles. And I'll bet this is the only time/place/blog anywhere where you'll see those four names--Shatner, Lewis, O'Hara and The Beatles--lumped together. Aren't you glad you tuned in?

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Saturday, February 14, 2015


The above-posted 1967 recording of Robert Mitchum singing John D. Loudermilk's "You Deserve Each Other Baby" simply KICKS ASS. Little more be said. I'm growing into a Mitchum/Crooner supporter and am sorry I lumped him with Lumpy Lewis and Lemmon in this mini-series of actors-who-mistakenly-thought-they-could-sing-but-shoulda-stood-in-bed. Mitchum chews this up, spits it out and then no doubt finishes the bottle and moves on. Dig it!

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Friday, February 13, 2015


In 1957, as a result of what was a no doubt rum-soaked journey to Trinidad (for filming of "Fire Down Below" perhaps?) Robert Mitchum recorded a full album of calypso music. Titled "Calypso Is Like So", the album confounds expectations, managing to be quite humorous and bouncy, despite Mitchum's mimicking of local accents making the whole thing a little iffy nowadays. Nonetheless, tracks like 'Mama Looka Boo Boo' (posted above), 'Cocoanut Water' and 'From A Logical Point Of View' make for fun 'easy listening', though I have to say that Mitchum's voice seems speeded up. Perhaps nitrous was a drug of choice in Trinidad in those years? Or in Hollywood?

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Wednesday, February 11, 2015


Here's a weirdie. Robert Mitchum was known to sing title songs for his movies--'Thunder Road' most notably--and even did a Calypso album ("Calypso Is Like So..."). But at some point in the late '40s, early 50s, he seems to have made a handful of straight-up jazz vocals for an album that never materialized. The material wound up coming out in 1997 on a CD called "Robert Mitchum; Tall Dark Stranger."

They're a curious batch of records as they clearly were not meant for release. Rather they seem to be tests, first drafts if you will, of how Mitchum might approach the tunes. They're all too short--running just over a minute or so--and except for 'Blue Skies', none of them have an ending. Mitchum kind of fades away, not confident in his ability to wrap up the song in a jazzy way that will sync with the pianist (whom I don't know the identity of). On a couple of them you hear him derisively pooh-pooh the effort at the tale end of the take ("I told you that ending wouldn't work..." etc.). But the oddest thing about the existence of these tracks is that, unlike Jack Lemmon and Jerry Lewis (see previous week's posts), Mitchum is actually a pretty cool cat when it comes to his singing. He has a little Dino in his accent and more than a touch of Frankie Laine in his sliding, quasi-country beltings. You get the definite impression that had he focused on it more, he'd have gotten more comfortable and confident and actually pulled this stuff off.

But that wasn't Mitchum's way. It either fell into place for him or it didn't. That was how he approached acting and life. To work hard (or be seen working hard) wasn't his thing. I've always dug the story of him when working on Elia Kazan's movie of Fitzgerald's "The Last Tycoon." It goes like this: Robert De Niro and Kazan were deep in 'method' rehearsals and conversations, which Mitchum naturally had no interest in. One of the other actors heard their rehearsals and was fascinated with a direction he heard Kazan give--a way to achieve the distracted, melancholy nature of the doomed studio-head Monroe Stahr. The actor told Mitchum that Kazan asked De Niro to always be thinking of something other than the lines he was reading while he was talking. Mitchum shrugged and said, "Shit, I've been doing that for forty years."

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Friday, February 6, 2015


"The Oscar" starring Stephen Boyd, Elke Sommer, Milton Berle and way too many other famous people to bother mentioning, is considered by many to be one of the worst movies ever made. (I would amend to that--"in color by a major studio" but many would disagree. And what the hell of it?) With every line a cliche, every performance pitched perfectly wrong, and a raging score to underline the various gaffes and missteps, the film is a disaster to behold and a joy to watch.

But what has this to do with our obsessive pursuit of good actors needing to prove themselves good singers? Well, in this case we have a reverse example of the syndrome we've been studying vis a vis Jerry Lewis and Jack Lemmon (with Robert Mitchum on the horizon). For among the many embarrassments found in "The Oscar" is the only screen performance (other than cameos) of one of the greatest singers of our time, Tony Bennett. He plays Hymie Kelley, whose name is explained by his having a Jewish mother and Irish father--this is typical of the film in that they managed to cast an Italian-American in the role and didn't bother to simply alter one of the nationalities and thus make sense of Bennett's incredibly Italian-Americanish looks and personality. Hymie is a loyal sidekick to movie star Frankie Fain (Stephen Boyd) but eventually realizes what a prick he is and has a meltdown renunciation scene which will leave you stunned by its...its...well lets just say that Tony does to acting what Jerry does "Get Happy" (or Jack does to "Try A Little Tenderness").To Tony's credit, he has often said that he hated the experience, thought he was no good at all and made certain never never NEVER to act again. In 1980s "Golden Turkey Award" book, Michael Medved and Harry Medved (Michael's father? brother? husband?) awarded Bennett "Worst Performance By a Popular Singer." Which makes me think that a similar award should be given out to our actor/singers, a la "Worst Record By a Popular Actor". I like it. I'm only sorry that the idea was Medveds, and not a critic anyone actually respects. Ladies and gentleman, click on the above link to witness Anthony Benedetto's debut and farewell performance in "The Oscar." Stinko!

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Wednesday, February 4, 2015


It's no fun beating up on Jack Lemmon, don't you agree? He gave us so many wonderful performances and he was truly such a good guy (at least there hasn't been evidence to the contrary) that it seems churlish to chide him for his one serious lapse of artistic judgement. I refer of course to our topic of the week, the immortally bad "A Twist Of Lemmon" (see previous two posts).

So if that's how I feel, why am I posting Lemmon's ridiculous rendition of Gershwin's "Bidin' My Time"? Is it because the space-age pop arrangement by Marion Evans truly deserves a closer listen? Is it because of Jack's occasional absurd forays into Dino-like accented phrasing? Is it because the whole stupid song belongs to the second or third ranks of Gershwin and the thought of bothering to do it when there are so many other great Gershwin songs to explore is just plain idiotic? No. The reason I posted the above is because it has thus far received EXACTLY ONE VIEWING ON YOUTUBE. That's right. One. I've never been the second viewing and it makes me absurdly happy to have gotten in on the action so early. So do the person who posted the very nicely remastered full album of "A Twist Of Lemmon" a solid and, when you click on the above video, go to the bottom right corner and hit "watch on Youtube". You'll be supporting the arts in a small but perhaps significant way. Which is more than the company that released "A Twist Of Lemmon" could say.

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Tuesday, February 3, 2015


Next up from Jack Lemmon's debut and farewell album all in one, "A Twist Of Lemmon," is a very peculiar take on "Fine And Dandy" (posted above). Lemmon begins the song in a slow-tempo, with Errol Garner-style background piano comping (is it Lemmon playing?) He seems to be channeling Dean Martin for awhile, then lets the imitation slip away as the arrangement picks up and turns into a string-backed affair for awhile. It's really several different styles of arranging jammed into one two-minute record, glued together (or not quite glued together as the case may be) by Lemmon's distinctly uncomfortable vocal. Things get especially silly in the last bridge-and-out chorus, where Lemmon--perhaps a little toasted at this point? (he was known to knock back the 'Tini's' pretty good)--tries on a variety of other singing styles, tiring of each of them almost immediately. In this sense, the performance might be considered the forerunner of Kevin Spacey's take on Bobby Darin. (This makes a whole lot of sense when you remember that Lemmon was one of Spacey's idols.) I get the distinct impression that this was the last recording of the session, done after midnight, and that nobody--including Lemmon--asked for a second take.

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