A blog formerly known as Bookishness / By Charles Matthews

"Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo ... became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for a character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who had paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many ... decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings."
--Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Friday, September 22, 2023

One Mile From Heaven (Allan Dwan, 1937)

Joan Carroll and Bill Robinson in One Mile From Heaven

Cast: Claire Trevor, Sally Blane, Douglas Fowley, Fredi Washington, Bill Robinson, Joan Carroll, Ralf Harolde, John Eldredge, Paul McVey, Ray Walker, Russell Hopton, Chick Chandler, Eddie Anderson, Howard HIckman. Screenplay: Robin Harris, Alfred Golden, Lou Breslow, John Patrick, based on a story by Ben B. Lindsey. Cinematography: Sidney Wagner. Art direction: Bernard Herzbrun. Film editing: Fred Allen. Music: Samuel Kaylin.

In One Mile From Heaven, a reporter happens upon a Black woman who is raising a white child and says that the little girl is her own daughter. The reporter immediately sees it as a hot news item. It's an odd and distasteful premise for a movie, especially if, as in this case, the child is happy, well cared-for, and loves her mother, who's entirely capable of raising her. It's the mere fact of the racial disparity that sets Lucy Warren (Claire Trevor) on the course of exposing the relationship of Flora Jackson (Fredi Washington) and her putative daughter, Sunny (Joan Carroll), leading to the discovery of Sunny's birth mother, the wealthy (and white) Barbara Harrison (Sally Blane). It winds up with what's supposed to be a happy ending. That the movie is played as a sentimental comedy laced with musical numbers supplied by a tap-dancing Black policeman (Bill Robinson) only makes it seem odder. It could, after all, have been an indictment of nosy journalism, or a story of racial injustice, but instead it's a grab-bag of movie tropes, including a press room filled with anything-for-a-scoop reporters straight out of The Front Page (Lewis Milestone, 1931), and a thwarted prison escape that comes out of nowhere and has only a tangential relationship to the main plot. Allan Dwan handles all of this with his usual finesse, but is never quite able to make a coherent film out of it. This was Washington's last film before she retired from acting and devoted her life to civil rights activism. The movie, based on an actual case in Denver, serves as evidence why that activism was needed. 

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