The Music Man

The Music Man (Morton DaCosta, 1962) DaCosta had directed "The Music Man" on stage, and parlayed that to direct the film version of "Auntie Mame" in 1958. When it came time for a film version of Meredith Wilson's Iowa-based musical, even the usually-interfering Jack Warner wanted DaCosta to do the film.

 

But, Warner wanted someone else besides Robert Preston—who had played the role magnificently on Broadway—to play the traveling con-man, Harold Hill. James Cagney, Bing Crosby, and Cary Grant were all approached to star and all refused, Grant adding that not only would he not star in it, but if Preston wasn't cast, he wouldn't even go to see it! Warner was about to sign Frank Sinatra, when show creator Wilson reminded Warner that he had final approval of casting written into his contract, and he wanted Preston and no one but Preston.

 

Robert Preston was cast. And performed quite magnificently.

The role played to his strengths...and weaknesses. Preston languished in the outskirts of in-demand stars. He was a good actor, but a wily character actor, not exactly star-material. Handsome, sure, but of a face-type that better suited antagonists than protagonists. He could be comfortable twirling a mustache, but whether sporting one or clean-shaven, he was an aggressive charmer of indeterminate virtue.

This quality made him a perfect match for the role of Harold Hill, a grifter in salesman's clothing, who travels city to city like a circus caravan, bamboozling the local rubes into buying musical instruments for their restless youth to form "boy's bands". Once he's pocketed the cash, he splits town before the instruments arrive, as he couldn't provide any instruction in how to use them, anyway. He SAYS he does, but what grifter can actually do what he says he can?

So, Harold Hill brings his brassy blue-sky ideas to River City, Iowa, where he and a former crony, Marcellus Washburn (Buddy Hackett) start spreading the word of what a wonderful opportunity a boys' band would be to the city's rambunctious and temptation-susceptible youth. There is, being Iowa, skepticism, from the school board, the River City Mayor (played by the inimitable prevaricating Paul Ford) and, in particular for the story's purposes, the city's librarian and music tutor, Miss Marian Paroo (Shirley Jones), but it isn't long before he starts making in-roads with the populace. Not an easy thing to do, for (as the song says) they're "so by God stubborn" they "can stand touching noses for a week at a time and never see eye to eye."

To maximize profits, and still be ahead of the law, he plots a good defense against the offense—he deflects the school board by playing on their voice-characteristics to turn them into a singing quartet, and then decides to seduce the "old maid" (sorry) "sadder but wiser" librarian to short-circuit her logic systems.

It is rather difficult to think of the 27 year young (at the time of the filming) Jones as "an old maid"—she was the same age as ingenue Susan Luckey, who played the Mayor's teen daughter—but, The Music Man is one of those stories where one has to suspend disbelief (after all, the movie hinges on the mulish River City dwellers suspending theirs).

One also has to suspend time and movie momentum, as well. In its 2 hour 31 minute length, there are 22 songs, meaning that the story comes to a full-stop every 5 minutes and change. It would be frustrating if Meredith Wilson's material wasn't so darned good...or so syncopative, a quality that seems to act as a natural buggy-whip to make the festivities move along at a good clip. There is one speed-bump, at the extended "'Til There Was You" sequence where one can actually feel one's pocket-watch tut-tutting. But, the song is so good—Heck, The Beatles even "covered" it!

Future director Ron Howard scopes out an overhead shot

And that's the main draw here. As good—and enthusiastic—as Preston, Jones and Company are, it is the treasure chest of songs that keep the movie percolating from scam to scam, subterfuge to subterfuge, before reaching some genuine feeling with agendas no longer hidden and ending with pure fantasy. That's quite a story arc.

Sure, it's corn. Pure-bred American corn. But, there's nothing as sweet as corn plucked right from the stalk. The Music Man, for all its brass, is just as sweet.

This Gun For Hire

This Gun For Hire (Frank Tuttle, 1942) We talked about James Cagney's sole directorial effort—Short Cut To Hell—in May (that long ago?). My opinion of Cagney is exospherically high, but the film he made was not all that great, despite having as its source a well-regarded early Graham Greene novel. Although it had its moments, it just wasn't all that good; it was (in my opinion) a problem with the creepy lead, and lackluster script and...direction (Cagney preferred producing over directing—he didn't like telling people what to do, he said).

But, Short Cut To Hell was a remake of a significant 1942 Paramount film that was an early example of film noir—which is usually associated with the POST-war period of cynicism in the world-view—and that turned a slight Hollywood contract player* into a star, Alan Walbridge Ladd Jr. (as proof, look at the poster where Ladd is buried at the bottom—that would change on subsequent one-sheets).**

Ladd plays Philip Raven, and we first meet him in a dingy apartment, sweating in a slept-in suit and tie when his alarm clock going off. Time to go to work. He pulls out a folder and puts his gun in it. He feeds a visiting stray-cat and roughs up the house-maid who tries to shoo it away. Raven's a cat-person. Stands to reason. Cats are independent. Dogs are exceedingly loyal and might slow you down. But, Raven, despite the ornithological name, is a feral stray—he's loyal to no one and has no ties. He does freelance work and once he's paid, he's gone. Don't pay him...well, that's just one more job. Work is tough, but it's steady.

Not so much for Ellen Graham (Veronica Lake). Oh, she has skills—she's a cabaret performer who sings and does sleight-of-hand. But, the offers are few and far-between and usually have hands attached to them. That's okay, though, she likes the looks on would-be-lotharios' faces when she tells them her boyfriend (Robert Preston) is a cop. His work is steady, too, and so much so that he can't accompany Ellen for an audition she's got at a club. Maybe he should have. Because here is where things start to get complicated.

That nightclub she's auditioning for is owned by Willard Gates (Laird Cregar), who's also a busy man. He has two jobs. Besides the nightclub, he's a problem-solver for Nitro Chemical under the direct supervision of Alvin Brewster (Tully Marshall), who isn't above a little advantageous war-profiteering by selling to the country's enemies. And he's just hired Raven to kill a guy who's got a dossier on the sale and is planning to blackmail Nitro Chemical with it. Raven does his usual efficient job of axing the blackmailer and his secretary, but he's a bit of a "one-and-done" kind of guy.

His employer, Gates, plays a long game. He pays off Raven with marked bills, then goes to the police to report that Nitro has had money stolen from its payroll and (fortuitously!) has the serial numbers of the bills that were stolen. And guess who the detective is that he gives the list to? Ellen's boyfriend, natch! If Raven spends any of that money, it's going to be traced right back to him. Gates gets rid of the blackmailer and the guy hired to kill him in one swoop. Nitro Chemical can continue to sell poison gas to the Japanese. Simple.

Not so fast. On one front, Ellen is given a detour after her audition by the federal government in the form of Senator Burnett (Roger Imhof), who wants her new job at Gates' nightclub to be a front for spying on her employer. She's an all-American gal, so she says "Yes, sir!" Meanwhile, Raven is starting to feel the heat from those marked bills he's been using around town, so much so that he barely manages to avoid a stake-out at the flea-bag hotel he's staying at. He decides that he better blow San Francisco as fast as possible...and find that weasel Gates and make him pay...with interest. He heads to the train station to get a train to Los Angeles, where Gates is headquartered.

Small world. Gates is heading home on the train first class, and so is his new hire, Ellen. Smaller train. Ellen and Raven end up seated next to each other and rather than "meet cute" they "meet loot" when he rifles through her billfold for some loose change. She notices that she's a bit lighter in dough, and she tells him to fork it back or she's calling the porter. Raven's on the run, so he sheepishly hands back the pickings and grunts an apology, and she keeps a close stink-eye on the guy.

And Gates? He's about to go to the dining car (not that he could use skipping a meal) when he spies Raven and Ellen sitting next to each in coach. He gets spooked and has the porter wire ahead to Los Angeles that the man the San Francisco cops are looking for is ON THAT TRAIN! How does he know what the guy looks like when they don't even know? W-well...never mind that, he's ON THAT TRAIN!

Once everybody's in Los Angeles is when things turn a little nasty: Raven takes Ellen hostage but let's her go, boyfriend starts to panic and up the search for Raven, Ellen gets invited to Gates' house for dinner and because she's a good little soldier/spy, she goes, Gates' sadistic man-servant (Marc Lawrence) has pretty twisted ideas of how to get rid of her, Raven comes a-stalkin' for Gates with an eye toward murder, and pretty soon, bullets are flying and people are running all around Los Angeles, trying to dodge those bullets.

Director Frank Tuttle is not on anyone's list of great, influential directors, but his work on this and another Ladd/Lake film—an adaptation (the second, in fact) of Dashiell Hammett's The Glass Key—at least earns him some mention in any article on the development of film noir. He'd worked from the silent days of 1922 to 1959 (where he ended his career working on two pot-boilers for Ladd's production company). His primary directing days were for Paramount Pictures, but, a member of the Communist Party, he was blacklisted and, like many others, moved to Europe where he could still be considered for work. Returning to Hollywood years later, he'd pick up work from Ladd, who was loyal to the man who made him a star, but also because Tuttle was stylish without doing any damage to a budget.

I've always liked Lake—although her male co-stars often complained about her—she's always come across as someone who had a thought in their head, even playing milquetoast roles. She had a confident swagger about her and made the most out of comic lines, and walked that fine tightrope of sarcasm, but without any real malice. Both men and women liked her, which made her something of a sensation (and may I say that Lauren Bacall owed her a lot!). She was barely 20 making This Gun For Hire—having just finished filming Sullivan's Travels.

Ladd was ten years older, but seemed younger and more vulnerable, certainly quieter and more restrained. But, there was a cold dead-ness in his eyes, that made an audience curious and commanded their attention, and he was All-American handsome, but not in a modelish way. Ladd looked more comfortable frying up eggs than having them served to him, and he radiated working class that most stars couldn't. He'd look at a glass of champagne that was handed to him before he drank it. He was relatable—something the kid who played the part in Cagney's version certainly wasn't.

So, call it noir-lite, with its respect for higher authority and its "choir of angels" ending, but This Gun For Hire is, if not a blueprint, at least a first-draft rendering of what would pass for the naked bulbs and slanting shades and grit of film noir. It made bad look really good.

* Ladd had been in films since 1932 in scores of small roles--you can see him in the shadows in the screening room at the beginning and walking the halls of Xanadu at the end in Citizen Kane.

 

**