As a kid, I had nothing but love for old monster movies.

The Universal gang, Frankenstein, Dracula, The Creature From The Black Lagoon. The cheesecake gigantic atomic monstrosities. War Of The Gargantuas. Godzilla and his kaiju clan.

I collected and built all the Aurora horror model kits. (Not the Polar Lights remakes, the original, one and only Aurora kits with their glow-in-the-dark features and meticulous need for attention.) I still have all of them.

And I reveled in the bevy of publications of my youth, from comics (Werewolf By Night, Man-Thing, Monsters Unleashed) to black and white magazines (Famous Monsters Of Filmland) and right on into the “vogue” newspapers (The Monster Times).

Interestingly, of all the films and media I devoured back in the day — something I continue soak up and revisit as time allows — I never got around to reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s novella The Strange Case Of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde nor did I get any of the many films tucked beneath my belt. I really don’t have a good reason. It just might be it was one of the lesser films I figured I’d get to eventually. In hindsight I don’t remember it being as readily viewable as other horror flicks, a reasonable excuse I’m comfortable in stating that’s the most likely cause.

Regardless, I recently was able to wrangle a viewing of Fredric March’s Oscar-winning performance during a rather recent Turner Classic Movie pre-code Friday night.

And oh … what a treat it was.

The film left several indelible impressions on me. Given March’s performance, there’s no question why he won an Academy Award. I haven’t seen much information or talk regarding his actual performance in the film, but based on what I saw on the screen the guy was relentlessly focused in his craft. Yes, it’s got all the old-timey black and white aura about it that lends mood and “color,” something that rides comfortably on its laurels even 60+ years after its release. But March’s performance is something to behold. And I’m not just talking the superb transformation scenes into and out of his Mr. Hyde character. His realization of Hyde is evocative of a feral animal. You can feel the effort of his ache and strain as Hyde’s persona seethes to the surface. He exudes a bestial mood you can practically smell through the screen. Acrobatically, March leaps over railings just as effortlessly and effectively as he flings champagne bottles to the floor or forces foes out of his way or women onto the floor. The guy was a physical marvel. I’ve never seen any indication he didn’t do his own stunts, further testament to his adeptness.

Most impressive (and disturbing), however, is the fact Mr. Hyde is a singular asshole. He could give a rat’s ass about anyone or anything. The only time he cares about anything other than whatever whims come to mind is when he’s cornered and in danger. Then, he’s all about escape … and always with the utmost prejudice in preserving himself. Nothing more, nothing less. He’ll go to any lengths to flee, not giving a single whit as to the consequences of his actions. I was mesmerized by Hyde and his ogre-like demeanor during his encounter with bar vixen/singer Ivy Pearson (Miriam Hopkins) who, not coincidentally, Jekyll saved from an attacker one evening. Hyde is positively horrendous, lecherous and ghastly in the extreme.

Which, in turn, brings around the subject of the success of the film as a pre-motion picture code (“Hays Code”) product, free of the censorship guidelines which raised their heads in the mid-30s. Those guidelines stymied things such as graphic scenes, extreme violence and sexual innuendo, all of which run rampant throughout Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde. It’s what makes it such a jewel of film, albeit an uncomfortably disturbing one. In fact, the viewer who has yet to take in this classic will no doubt be surprised by some of the loose standards and extremism evident in the film.

Honestly? I’m glad I didn’t see this as a kid. There’s not many things that disturb me now … but then? As an impressionable youth? I have little doubt someone as caustic and despicable a character as Mr. Hyde would have rankled my dreams to the utmost.

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Regardless of its billing as a comedy, The Half-Naked Truth is the farthest thing possible from a yuck-fest. But it does have its (ultra) rare moments … few and far between though they may be.

The story revolves around oily, fork-tongued pitchman Jimmy Bates (Lee Tracy) who decides to make tracks out of the carnival where he and his fiery hooch dancer Teresita (Lupe Velez) are employed. After an attempt at sensationalizing his girlfriend’s performance with a tricky “bonus” (the revelation that one of the local townsfolk is actually Teresita’s father), Bates’ jig is up when police casing the carnival stumble on his plan. He high-tails it to avoid arrest and takes Teresita and his friend Achilles (Eugene Pallette) along with him.

To New York City they go to find fame and fortune under the auspices of Broadway under theater big shot Merle Farrell (Frank Morgan, most famously known for his 5 roles in The Wizard Of Oz). Bates finagles his way into one of Farrell’s Broadway shows posing Teresita as escapee “Princess Exotica,” freshly freed from a Turkish harem (complete with attendant Achilles) and a lion. (Talk about your sensationalism.) Impressed, Farrell ends up signing “Princess Exotica” to a contract with his company. Bates’ lies and shenanigans have won everyone over … but the ruse doesn’t last long. Teresita ends up having an affair with the married Farrell and a spurned Bates vows to destroy her career and blackmail the theater owner, neither feat difficult to accomplish.

Bates retaliatory scheme involves a hotel housekeeper and he again “convinces” Farrell to sign her to his company, successfully outing Teresita from her marquee standing while putting yet another one over on Farrell. Teresita and Achilles — who has since purchased the carnival he originally worked at with his “Princess Exotica” ploy monies — return to their huckster show beginnings.

In the end, Bates grows tired of the New York lifestyle. He decides to take Achilles up on a communiqué his friend has sent to him and he returns to the carnival where the three are reunited once again, right where they began.

Released in 1932 at the end of the pre-Hayes Code rating era, you go into the film realizing the 30s had an entirely different concept of comedy than we’re used to today. The laughs were gruff in nature, sometimes physically abusive (and those in The Half-Naked Truth are certainly that) and are filled with references which are often archaic and capable of flying right past one’s understanding.

Bates is as overbearing a personality as you’ll ever meet, to the point you want to see him fail spectacularly in his efforts. (A little research shows that was one of Lee Tracy’s trademarks as a comedian.) But … he’s that good in the role, such that it is. He’s adept at talking his way out of any situation and does so time and again, regardless of his position. He finagles “royalty” into a suite in a ritzy New York hotel (being it’s The Big Apple, you’d think the management of the place would be a little wiser to such tomfoolery) and into the employ of a mighty (yet somewhat scatter-brained) Broadway producer, he tricks the media and the public at every turn … and does it all coming out smelling like a rose. While this might play well to the story, I found it more annoying than anything else. Still, you can’t help simultaneously marveling at his chutzpah while vilifying him.

Teresita? She’s far from the best eye candy out there so I didn’t relate to either her supposed attractiveness nor showmanship. And her spitfire persona? I chalked that up to simpler times. Maybe Lupe Velez fans get her, I do not.

On the plus side, there were a few spiffy verbal shots thrown at various players with deadly aim and precision: “He couldn’t sell a fat boy to a tribe of cannibals” got a chuckle out of me. But it was one snort too few in a film billed as a comedy.

One (unintentional) funny side note to this film is its original tagline: “A million candle-power romance loaded with laughter.” No … it isn’t. Maybe Bates can sell you that bridge while he’s hawking his brand of sensationalism, but I’m not buying it. And, as mentioned, this thing is far from “loaded with laughter.” At the time of release, this piece may have been enjoyable but as a comedy it certainly doesn’t translate well today in any way, shape or form.

The DVD transfer is a bit sub par and somewhat shaky in scenes with blurry, often crowded sets that don’t bode well. Thankfully, the transfer doesn’t make them any more glaring then they already are. The sound, too, shows wear and tear and is muddled in spots … or is it simply the fast-talking players in the film who appear in a rush to be elsewhere? Possibly. Lastly, the disc boasts only the film itself, no bonuses or extras.

Again, if you’re a Velez fan — or you want to see one of many efforts Frank Morgan put on film — take a spin with The Half-Naked Truth. Otherwise you might find yourself yawning. A lot.

The Half-Naked Truth was generously provided to CliqueClack by the Warner Archive Collection for review.

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Let’s talk Hollywood before the rules kicked in before we get to some of the down and dirty about John Gilbert’s Downstairs … shall we? Trust me — it’s going to help make things a bit understandable.

Per Wikipedia’s Pre-Code Hollywood: “… films in the late 1920s and early 1930s included sexual innuendo, miscegenation, profanity, illegal drug use, promiscuity, prostitution, infidelity, abortion, intense violence and homosexuality … Nefarious characters were seen to profit from their deeds, in some cases without significant repercussions …” (There’s quite the lengthy read at that link. Take a visit — it’s really quite interesting.)

Of the 10 mentions in the above quotation, we get a healthy dose of sexual innuendo, promiscuity, infidelity and intense violence feeding Downstairs, much of it rather shocking if you don’t know what’s coming. And, honestly, I didn’t know what was coming as the film unfolded.

Starring a debonair John Gilbert (who also wrote and hocked the film) as a newly hired chauffeur, the film begins with Gilbert traipsing into his new digs at the vast, bustling estate of the Baron Von Burgen (Reginald Owen, Ebenezer Scrooge in 1938’s A Christmas Carol). There’s a wedding going on, the nuptials of The Baron’s head butler Albert (Paul Lukas) and one of the young maids of the estate, Anna (Virginia Bruce). And right away, after a traditional stomping of grapes to bring good luck to the newly wedded couple, the lascivious Karl greets the bride with a big wet one right smack dab on the kisser. (Video below.) With that big wet one, we’re off to the races and hungry for what other sorts of mischief Karl gets involved with.

And it doesn’t take long for this heel’s true colors to come shining through. He bumps into a former lover at the wedding celebration who is none too pleased to see him fraternizing with the guests. He begins an affair with one of the cooks on the estate and sleeps with her. Chauffeuring The Baroness to a shopping excursion one day that turns into a rendezvous for good lovin’ monkey business, Karl is in just the right position to gather enough information to hold over her head for later use. Meanwhile, he continues his pursuit of newly wed Anna who he’s got a thing for, turning on the suspicions of her rather stuffy husband Albert. (Karl’s seductions of Anna are pretty effective. She’s naive enough to sleep with him — finding out he’s one hell of a lover — and ends up carrying that torch despite being a new bride. After all, why settle for the plain vanilla of Albert when she can have Karl, too, with all tasty sprinkles and a cherry on top?)

And … what? I didn’t mention the year this film was made, did I? 1932. Yep. This little gem got in right under the period where Hollywood ultimately got pressured into cleaning up its act and having to censor the raciness running rampant in the industry. And here I thought I was getting a little treat of a flick featuring Reginald Owen. Hardly! My jaw dropped all over the place watching this thing! It dropped at Sophie the cook swiping flour off Karl’s backside in the kitchen! At Karl arranging a room at an inn for a bit of hanky-panky with Anna! And at Anna confessing to her husband what a great piece of ass Karl is! Zounds!

(Side Note: Universal’s Frankenstein was pre-code, too, having been released in 1931. There was plenty of controversy in that film at the time as well as deleted scenes, not the least of which was Frankenstein’s monster killing that little village girl by tossing her into the drink. Still, Hollywood had the wherewithal to delete the scene. It’s since been reinstated into the classic.)

At the film’s conclusion, Karl almost gets strangled to death by by the uber-jealous Albert, but he’s unceremoniously kicked out of the Baron’s employ instead … only to wind up at yet another employer, another hottie ripe for his seductive pickings.

Karl: A nefarious character always at the ready to reap the profits of his philandering ways and with nary a repercussion, indeed.

I confess this was a guilty pleasure akin to stealing glances at your father’s Playboy collection as a kid. With Downstairs under my belt, I’m primed and ready for additional Forbidden Hollywood titles from the Warner Archive Collection.

As a remastered print, I was duly impressed with the quality — extremely clean for something originally produced in 1932, impressively so. A few extras would have been a nice compliment. Hey … I can dream, can’t I?

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=TNzIAkX2Y40

Downstairs is part of the Forbidden Hollywood Collection: Volume 6 provided to CliqueClack by the Warner Archive Collection.

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