Review- The Thin Man: Murder Over Cocktails

Charles Tranberg, author of the highly-praised I Love the Illusion: The Life and Career of Agnes Moorehead, has turned his attention to the Thin Man film series with The Thin Man: Murder Over Cocktails. It’s a well-written and well-researched work, and when considering the paucity of material and interviewees available, it’s a valiant effort, too. In writing a book about Nick and Nora’s screen adventures, Tranberg has to compete with the sad reality that the internet has made books like this largely superfluous. For instance, there’s a lot of substance in Rich Drees’ excellent Thin Man article from Film Buff Online of some years ago. There’s plenty of information for an extended online article, but not necessarily for a three hundred page book. However, I’m glad that there’s even a Thin Man book available in this day and age. It’s informative, and reading this information in a book is preferable to being hunched over the computer screen’s sinister glow, but it isn’t as focused on the film series per se. It’s most likely that there just isn’t all that much Thin Man information around.

The set up in Murder Over Cocktails is simple: Tranberg lays out a brief plot synopsis, adds some memorable quotes from the film, and includes a precious handful of anecdotes about the behind-the-scenes goings on, many of which have appeared in Jon Tuska's (highly-recommended) Jon Tuska’s The Detective In Hollywood and Myrna Loy’s autobiography, Being and Becoming. The rest of the chapter is a compilation of blurbs from various press sources of the day, extolling each movie’s virtues. There's also a rundown of the supporting players’ career highlights. In fact, so much space is dedicated to actor biographies that I found myself impatiently flipping ahead in the dim hope that I’d find something else—anything—on the movies themselves. The index wasn’t any help—there isn’t one! Curse you, Bear Manor Press! However, these actor and technician profiles may prove to be the best thing about Murder Over Cocktails. But while it's nice to have a performer’s career highlights at one’s fingertips, I’d prefer that there be more about the actual Thin Man movies, even if it were just photos, extended dialogue, or publicity materials. It’s also unfortunate that Tranberg didn’t dedicate some time on the actual era in which the series was made, instead of merely listing the personnel’s film credits. Was Nick Charles the ideal American male? Was Nora the feminine ideal? What about those other Sleuthing Couples? The book includes a decent selection of photos, some of which I hadn’t seen before, and instead of an index, there's a supporting actor portrait gallery, which varies in quality; some actors’ photos are from much later in their career; Sam Levene’s (Lt. Abrams in the second and fourth films) picture looks like it was taken in 1971 rather than 1941.

Despite my own mild disappointment with Murder Over Cocktails, I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend the book to someone just getting interested in The Thin Man movies, as it would serve as a good primer in learning about the actors and behind-the-scenes technicians involved. And there’s something to be said about any book getting published about Nick and Nora Charles; for that alone I'd give this book five stars! This volume is #1 in the Film Series Series. Redundant title aside, I hope there are more volumes in this new series, as it would be great to have future volumes cover the Andy Hardy, Blondie, Bowery Boys, and Charlie Chan films. For the longtime fan there’s nothing here we haven’t already read before, but I guess I’ll have to accept the fact that there’s a finite amount of Thin Man information out there. Whatever the case may be, count me as grateful that a publisher even put this book out there.

Left To Right: Maureen O'Sullivan, William Powell, Producer Hunt Stromberg[?], Director W.S. Van Dyke, Myrna Loy, and actor Ronald Colman on the set of The Thin Man (1934). Note Loy's beautiful dress, worn in the film.

Burt Lancaster: Against Type

That’s right, another miserable sod! I’ve been re-reading Against Type: a Biography of Burt Lancaster by Gary Fishgall (1995). It’s the first comprehensive Lancaster biography I’ve seen and the only one I’ve read, though I’ve been meaning to snag a copy of Kate Buford’s Burt Lancaster: an American Life. Against Type's narrative largely consists of behind-the-scenes anecdotes about his movie work, as well as the state of the world and the film industry as it was during Lancaster’s career, which spanned nearly fifty years. I’m glad the coverage of Burt the performer is emphasized over Burt the human being, because the latter was a difficult man to like: cold, ruthless, insensitive, and at times, downright nasty. As a result, Against Type plays like a broken record: Lancaster neglected his wife and children, carried on numerous affairs, bullied his co-stars and directed his directors, which led to a tense set, but when the project wrapped, there was nothing but kind words about Burt’s professionalism and drive for perfection, but never Burt the human being. There was no mistaking him for a nice guy, even if he gave his time and money to the civil rights struggle and championed liberal causes.

What I found to be the most fascinating thing about Burt Lancaster was that just like another Hollywood Dreamland hero, Cary Grant, he had his share of fears and insecurities. Lancaster covered his with an air of superiority and arrogance. Lancaster was not formally trained but had the charisma, natural ability, and keen intelligence to learn his craft and use his natural talents to blast most other performers off the screen. Still, when faced with formally-trained actors like Montgomery Clift, Lancaster’s knees literally shook with fear. He never got over that insecurity, even after establishing himself as one of the best actors of the 1960s. When making 1977’s The Island of Dr. Moreau*, Lancaster had the same fear of classically-trained Michael York, who was also twenty-eight years younger than the aging Lancaster, a former acrobat used to doing many of his own stunts, and who felt the onset of age acutely. When Lancaster was cast as Ned Merrill in the film adaptation of John Cheever’s short story, The Swimmer, Burt was throwing up off camera before filming when it struck him how tough it would be to play the film's affluent WASP protaganist, a background so different from his own. Director Frank Perry, who fought with Burt throughout the filming of The Swimmer, got a sense of satisfaction at seeing the big star afraid to screw up a most challenging role, as Burt was throwing up on the set before shooting began. Lancaster also was deeply depressed about growing older. A professional acrobat who did many of his own stunts, Lancaster nonetheless saw the proverbial writing on the wall and made the move to playing character parts in the late 1960s, rather than the traditional leading man roles which were appropriate for actors half his age.

It is the anecdotes about Lancaster overcoming his personal insecurities on a professional level that make for a fascinating look into Lancaster the man, because it was his fiery determination and ability to get the best possible performance out of himself from a part that may not have been ideally suited to his range that makes Lancaster an interesting actor to watch. Against Type is aptly titled. Just read it with an interest in Burt Lancaster, the artist; the man himself will only disappoint you.



*Yours truly saw The Island of Dr. Moreau in a drive-in theater (still extant!) at age five and was duly traumatized by the mutated humans and had nightmares about it for days afterwards---okay, years afterwards--in fact, I recently watched the film's trailer and couldn't believe how some of that imagery still disturbed me, particularly when the real animals are attacking the Hum-animals. I think the concept itself is what creeps me out, not the obviously-latex masks worn by the actors. Just don't tell anyone that I was disturbed by a Samuel Z. Arkoff production, okay?

Recommended Reading: The Citadel Film Series

In the days before the internet, The Citadel Press Film Series (aka: "The Films of...") was a Godsend to classic movie lovers, with each volume providing the details of a particular star’s credits along with a brief, but thorough biography in a time when career retrospectives were limited (though there was always plenty of gossip available). When the series took off in the early 1970s, it was no doubt due to the revival in interest in Golden Age movies. Film schools such as the program at USC helped lead to a scholarly publishing boom during the mid-1970s. The Citadel series' quality was uniformly excellent, as a knowledgeable film historian or entertainment writer covered an individual performer’s career, but the best books were often the ones written by fans with an encyclopedic knowledge of a star’s life and career. The typical Citadel Press book would include detailed film credits, numerous high-quality black & white photographs, and review excerpts during the time a specific movie was in release. Author Tony Thomas, whose The Films of Kirk Douglas (published 1972) was the first of the series I found. It even included an introduction from The Intense One himself! There were also tributes from Vincente Minnelli, William Wyler, and Stanley Kramer. This led me to believe that an actor receiving The Films of… treatment may have been a big deal. Anyway, it turned out that all of the movie stars I like have been given the Citadel treatment. The books were in print for years and as recently as the late 1990s updated editions could be found at major bookstores, though I haven't seen them lately.

My interest in the series just got a boost because I now have *Drum Roll* The Films of Susan Hayward, and it’s hands down the most exhaustive book ever written about her. It’s not merely a complete filmography, but more like a bio-filmography. It contains dozens of black & white photographs throughout its 280 pages, including several culled from author Eduardo Moreno’s collection, many of which are unavailable anywhere else (take that, internet!). There are print ads Susan did during the 1930s, publicity stills, full-page glamour shots, and photos of her Academy Awards appearances, including her last-ever public appearance in early 1974. The Citadel Film Series (over 100 titles) has always been a good read, but this volume is infinitely superior to any other I've seen, and that's not just because I’m on a Susan Hayward bender!

No Scanner Blues: Photo courtesy ebay

Recommended Reading: "On Cukor"

On Cukor, originally published in 1972, is screenwriter Gavin Lambert’s (Sons and Lovers; Inside Daisy Clover) series of wonderful interviews with Golden Age Hollywood director George Cukor (1899-1983). The interviews cover the director's entire career, from Cukor discovery Katharine Hepburn’s screen debut in A Bill of Divorcement (1932) to masterworks like The Women (1939), The Philadelphia Story (1940) and A Star Is Born (1954). Forgotten flops like Her Cardboard Lover (1942) and The Chapman Report (1962) receive honest appraisals from Cukor the interviewee, too. Included in the book are between-film “Interludes”, where the director candidly discusses actors (Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Greta Garbo), directors (Cukor was amused and fascinated by Alfred Hitchcock), and well-known events in Cukor's career, like when Cukor was replaced as director of Gone With the Wind.

I credit this book with getting me interested in 1930s movies. I received it as a gift in 1999 and I'll admit that at the time, Cukor’s films were not the kind I usually watched. “Too many women’s pictures” I muttered, ignorant as Hell. I duly shelving the book without any clue that this book and this director would one day rank among my favorites. It was only three years ago when I finally admitted that the 1930s and 1940s were the greatest period in cinematic history. I had been a Film Noir enthusiast for some time, but 1930s films were largely unknown to me. As I worked my way through the book, I found myself becoming enthralled with Cukor's films. Yes, many of the movies had women as the protagonists, but these weren’t the usual women’s roles I had grown up being bored by. Thirties and Forties female stars---especially in George Cukor's work-- were so much smarter, sexier, and funnier than the bland homemaker types of the 1950s (and their "Va-va-voom!" counterparts), or the bewigged, overly-sexualized drones of the 1960s (I’m generalizing; there are exceptions to each decade, of course).

What makes On Cukor so memorable is the man himself. George Cukor was intelligent, witty, and sophisticated. He speaks honestly of his successes and failures but surprisingly says little about his Oscar-winning effort, My Fair Lady (1964). Cukor and Lambert work well together, with Lambert serving as a sympathetic, knowledgeable interviewer. He knows the director's work and this adds to the reader’s enjoyment. This book avoids any awkward moments which is a stark contrast to George Cukor: Interviews (from the Conversations with Filmmakers Series) which compiles numerous mainstream press interviews with Cukor over the course of three decades. Cukor comes off (or is portrayed as) guarded and even grouchy! Not so in the Lambert book, which contains the strongest series of interviews I’ve ever read with a filmmaker. Apparently, the newer edition of the book contains numerous photographs that were unavailable in the 1972 edition. I was also thrilled to learn that the republication in 2000 coincided with a PBS documentary of the same name from the American Masters series.

A hearty recommendation for On Cukor!