Perry Mason 160: Murder Most Furry

Note: Erle Stanley Gardner was very much an outdoorsman. He wasn't just a courtroom author - he was a hunter, camper, archer, sportsman, and prolific travel photographer. Gardner documented extensive hunting trips, camping expeditions, bow‑hunting competitions, fishing trips, and yachting adventures across the Western U.S., Baja California, and even Alaska, Mexico and the Philippines. He was an animal lover.

Murder Most Furry: Three Perry Mason Tales with Animals

The Case of the Grinning Gorilla (1952)
Perry Mason buys a dead woman’s diaries for five bucks and, naturally, all hell breaks loose. Helen Cadmus is missing, drowned, or just being difficult. Enter Nathan Fallon, a cousin with the ethics of a pickpocket, and Benjamin Addicks, a millionaire who dabbles in gorilla neurology - because why not? Addicks waves money; Mason waves him off. Mason hates lies more than unsound logic.

Paul Drake snoops, finds gorillas, and a mansion fortified like Fort Knox. Cue murder. Addicks ends up dead, stabbed with something sharp enough to make Freud blush. The housekeeper is accused, and she’s as talkative as a clam. Mason nearly dies twice, which is twice more than usual.

The case? Weird, wild, and worth every page.

The Case of the Careless Kitten (1942)   
Published during WWII, this Perry Mason novel hums with wartime tension even though it never says so outright. The story pivots on identity: Komo insists he’s Korean, but everyone else calls him Japanese. In those days, truth didn’t matter - perception did. Gardner uses Komo as a quiet indictment of snap judgments.

The mystery begins with Franklin Shore, a banker who vanished a decade ago. Now he resurfaces - sort of. Mason arrives for a meeting and finds a corpse instead. What follows is eighteen hours of relentless motion: no trial theatrics, just Mason maneuvering while Della Street takes the fall and Burger grins like a cat in cream. There’s a kitten too - Amber Eyes -whose soft fur hides sharp claws and sharper consequences.

Gardner keeps it taut, brisk, and oddly poignant. Beneath the puzzle lies a hum of fear and suspicion, a reminder of what America looked like when trust was rationed.

The Case of the Fan Dancer's Horse (1947)
This Mason romp is pure Gardner in overdrive: two fan-dancers, one horse, and a murder in which the overbearing rancher is skewered with a samurai sword. It starts with a car wreck and a wardrobe that looks like it escaped from a burlesque revue. Mason runs an ad to return the goods, and suddenly the plot is juggling mistaken identities, borrowed names, and a timetable that eats half a page. There’s a victim, an ostrich burr on the blade, and a client who buries evidence like it’s a garden chore.

The courtroom scenes? Fireworks. Gardner doesn’t do character studies - he does detonations. Perry blows up a witness like a pinwheel on the Fourth of July. Sure, you can guess the killer, but who cares? The ride is the thing. If you want plausibility, read a tax manual. If you want fan-dancers, a horse, and a murder with style - step right up.

Matinee Musings: Lady of Burlesque

Lady of Burlesque
1943 / 1:31
Tagline: “Mirth! Murder! Melody! Mystery! and Girls! Girls! Girls!”
[internet archive]

Barbara Stanwyck slips into Dixie Daisy’s sequined skin with a verve that feels like liberation. Forget the noir siren or the ruthless schemer - here, Stanwyck is earthy, commonsensical, and unpretentious. Dixie is  shimmying her way to the top, armed with a grin and a gag. She sings, she dances, she cracks wise, and suddenly an opera house turned burlesque palace hums with her electricity.

But success breeds venom. Enter Lolita La Verne, a redhead with a temper - how unusual -  and Princess Nirvena, a White Russian with hauteur to spare. Both rivals wind up strangled, and Dixie - our accidental femme fatale - must pivot from pirouettes to peril, sleuthing her way out of a noose of suspicion.

William Wellman directs with his trademark robustness, giving the backstage chaos a pulse that’s equal parts grit and glitter. Edith Head’s costumes - feathers, sequins, and audacity stitched into every hem - are practically characters themselves. Arthur Lange’s score, Oscar-nominated, swells and swoons like a knowing wink to the absurdity of it all. Yes, Michael O’Shea’s Biff Brannigan can grate - his wisecracks clang like cracked cymbals in 2026 - but maybe that’s the point: burlesque thrives on noise, on excess, on the gaudy collision of artifice and appetite.

The film’s pleasures are tactile: the authentic seediness of the setting, the backstage antics that teeter between silly and sly, the one-liners that land like water balloons. And those costumes - outlandish, unapologetic, a parade of fantasy. Really, what more could you want, even if you're a fashion ignoramus like me?

Perry Mason 159: Rear Window

Note: It is impossible to examine Raymond Burr’s Pre-Mason Oeuvre without a look at his most memorable movie part among the general public. By 1954, Burr had played an evil goon (I Love Trouble, Abandoned, M)  or sadistic gangster (Raw Deal, Red Light, Borderline, His Kind of Woman) or corrupt professional fixer (Unmasked, FBI Girl, Mara Maru) but he was also persuasively gruesome as a psycho private eye (Pitfall), commie spy (Walk a Crooked Mile, The Whip Hand), and serial date rapist (The Blue Gardenia). So Alfred Hitchcock figured Burr would be a natural as the heavy in this suspense movie.

 Rear Window
1954 / 1:52
Tagline: “YOU won't be able to tear your eyes away from this window!”
[internet archive]

In this movie Raymond Burr plays Lars Thorwald, a salesman of wholesale costume jewelry in the Big Apple. His wife is chronically ill. She is not patient in her suffering but seems ever demanding and never satisfied. Lars is a bad neighbor in that he tells people in the shared court to shut up and leave him alone. Nor is he a good husband because he apparently telephones his girlfriend, for which his wife mocks him. Mr. and Mrs. Thorwald bicker all the time because the “in sickness and in health” clause that they slip in when people are too young and dumb to know the serious implications of “in sickness” does not mean anything to Lars though with his curly grey hair you’d think he’d be old enough to know what an ageing couple have to deal with.

On one rainy night Lars is observed leaving his apartment three times, carrying something away in his sample case. He is also observed wrapping a butcher knife and small saw in newspapers. And his wife with the health challenges is nowhere to be seen in the apartment. Lars is also spotted wearing the look a man has when he's afraid he's being watched.

The observer of The Bickersons and this curious activity is a photo-journalist Jeff (James Stewart) who is laid up with a broken leg due to an on-the-job accident. His insurance nurse (Thelma Ritter) warns him not to be so curious about and observant of the people in the various apartment buildings around the court, because her trouble detector is flashing yellow.

But Jeff is rather a dumb guy so he ignores the nurse’s sensible advice. We movie-goers can safely conclude Jeff is dumb because he refuses to marry Lisa (Grace Kelly) who is smart, sympathetic, considerate, funny, steely, and looks movie-star bodacious in anything she wears. Lisa wants Jeff to move from photo-journalism to fashion and portrait photography because she loves him so much she doesn’t want to see him hurt again and wants him in the Big Apple where she works in the fashion industry. Jeff calls her vision of their future “nonsense,” which hurts her deeply but he doesn’t seem to notice. He is also unsympathetic to the loneliness of a middle-aged woman neighbor and the artistic frustrations of young composer. Jeff is also merely amused when he observes a ballet dancer doing what Lisa calls a woman’s hardest job, “juggling wolves.” Jeff has no respect for people, no feeling for the crosses other people have to bear.

Because of his observations of Lars’ odd nocturnal activities, Jeff comes to think Lars knocked off his poor afflicted wife. Jeff persuades Lisa and his nurse that he’s on to something, like murder. Jeff is not so successful convincing his war buddy Doyle (Wendell Corey) who is a police detective. At least until the climax.

It’s really daring of Hitchcock to make a huge indoor set of apartment buildings around a court, but make us movie-goers feel we are watching a tiny little claustrophobic world consisting of Jeff’s apartment and Lars’ apartment. We see most of the action across the court but sigh with relief when we can see action a bit closer through Jeff’s telephone lens, called a “portable keyhole” by the nurse.

It is also daring to trust the audience that they will understand in mime a cranky disabled person (Irene Winston) making demands and needing constant care. As the couple mimes incessant quarrels, we can see Burr’s body language express impatience, frustration, and the contempt the hale and hearty feel for the weak and fragile. Burr of the heavyset stature has the physical bulk that’s communicative but his facial expressions tell volumes too. We agree with the nurse when she says that he gave “an expression such that he'd never get a loan at the bank.” We can also see Lars thinking, calculating, trying to control his anxiety about being caught and brought to account. And when he confronts Jeff, he croaks in a tight desperate voice, “You want money? I don’t have any money! Tell me what you want.”

Reviewers have said many times how great the acting is so I don’t need to do that again here since the focus here is on Brother Ray. It’s not illogical that this non-Mason part is the for which Raymond Burr is best remembered since Rear Window was probably the most popular picture he appeared in as the heavy. That he worked with other famous directors – Anthony Mann, Fritz Lang, Andre De Toth, Jacques Tourneur – is known nowadays only to buffs of film noir like us. One wonders if nowadays Burr would be remembered only by we happy few if William Hopper had won the part of Perry Mason or Fred MacMurray, who was offered the part of Our Favorite Lawyer, decided he didn’t want to deal with the grind of a TV series making 30 episodes a year.

As for the connection with the Perry Mason TV series, Wendell Corey appeared as the victim, an obnoxious oil man, in TCOT Unwelcome Well, one of the better episodes in the last season, which did not have many good outings.

Pre-Mason Raymond Burr
Please Murder Me (1956) [internet archive] [my review]
I Love Trouble (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Sleep My Love (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Ruthless (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Pitfall (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Walk a Crooked Mile (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Raw Deal (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Station West (1948) [my review]
Red Light (1949) [internet archive] [my review]
Abandoned (1949) [internet archive] [my review]
Borderline (1950) [internet archive] [my review]
Unmasked (1950) [internet archive] [my review]
The Whip Hand (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
Bride of the Gorilla (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
M (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
His Kind of Woman (1951) [internet archive] [my review]                
FBI Girl (Nov 1951) [internet archive] [my review]
Mara Maru (April 1952) [internet archive] [my review]
Horizons West (1952) [internet archive] [my review]
Blue Gardenia (1953) [internet archive] [my review]
Gorilla at Large (1954) [internet archive] [my review]
Rear Window (1954) [internet archive] [my review]

The Nones of Ann Harding: Her Private Affair

Note: Mary Astor said nice things about Ann Harding in her autobiography, calling her a “vital woman” and a “fighter.” Joan Crawford said “I cherish Ann's companionship more than any other person I have ever known," raving about Ann's "radiance," "beautiful soul", and "lack of pretense." Barbara Stanwyck said in 1934, “I have always hoped that my own work showed the same degree of sincerity.”

Her Private Affair
1929 / 1:15
Tagline: “Her guilt will either destroy her or set her free”
[internet archive]

This early talkie opens with Ann Harding’s restless hands and her melancholy distressed look as she talks on the phone. Got me hypnotized?

Totally. Tell me anything. I can believe anything Ann Harding for an hour and change.

Vera is on the telephone with a former love interest Arnold (Lawford Davidson). Arnold is a womanizer that wants money from Vera for a bundle of indiscreet letters. Tonight. Vera goes to her husband (Harry Bannister) for the money but doesn’t tell him why she wants it. He can’t come up with it at such short notice so Vera decides to see Arnold in person to tell him he’s going to have to wait until the next day. When Vera skips out of Carmen between acts and finally meets Arnold, a terrible accident happens, proving once again that just keeping a handgun in the house is bad medicine.

Ann Harding plays a decent person who is so refined that she is too good but the unhelpful guilt over the terrible accident puts her under strain. Not telling her husband, not coming clean, and not clearing up the legalities from the get-go put her under more strain. With no music in this early talkie, Ann Harding conveys with her voice Vera’s marital, ethical and legal anguish and the subsequent changes, good and bad, to her character and behavior. Life being the funny, funny riddle it is, after the terrible accident, she becomes a kinder, more humane person.

Harding’s voice - trained for the stage - was an attraction to an industry that suddenly needed gorgeous actresses that could deliver a line properly. Harding’s precise diction is a tad old-fashioned and theatrical in our 2026. Good actresses salvage iffy lines and so she persuasively manages histrionic lines like “I can't make you happy. I must go away. I must leave you.” She’s faltering and afraid but not making a scene. Her voice gets across Vera’s unquiet heart and sheer bewilderment this whole incident has happened to her, who’s never done anybody any harm ever. At the New Year’s Eve party, perfect is her voice with its quaver of agitation, haunted by guilt.

For me, a beguiled movie-goer with enthralled tolerance for Ann Harding’s thespian decisions, Harding seldom overacts in this picture. And when she does overdo it, it’s not showing off. Ann Harding is never false. Your milage of course will vary. The call depends on the degree to which a movie-goer is hypnotized by Ann Harding. For me, the answer is “Totally.” I can do anything Ann Harding for an hour and change.

This movie was based on a Broadway play that flopped. Nevertheless, Hollywood was hoovering up talky dramas with sophisticated people in ritzy surroundings. This movie was shot in a stagey, staid way so actors could stay close to microphones. I thought the courtroom scene and the New Year’s Eve Party were shot with some vague sense that they were making a movie, and so was the opening shot, which features only Harding’s hands. But the intention of giving The Folks the illusion this is how the people who go see Carmen live and love is more important here than cinematic values.

This movie, Harding’s second film, was a success with the audiences and served as a foundation of her stardom. Maybe in the early talkie days, one strong performance in a picture was enough to satisfy audiences.

Perry Mason 158: TCOT Demure Defendant

Note: From 1956 in the 50^th Perry Mason novel receptionist Gertie finally gets described in Chapter Seven. She looks like Connie Cezon! Stand-in for Bette Davis! Meanwhile, the big clue shows up fashionably late, so readers have zero chance of beating Mason to the punch. He barely gets it himself before springing the solution like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

The Case of the Demure Defendant – Erle Stanley Gardner

Nadine Farr is beautiful, but beauty doesn’t stop the nightmares. The dread. The guilt that coils in her gut like a live wire. For professional help, she goes to Dr. Logbert Denair - a name that sounds like it belongs in the year I was born. He prescribes talk therapy under sodium pentothal. Truth serum. Nadine talks. Too much. She says she poisoned her uncle. She says she tossed the cyanide bottle into a lake. Denair records every word on reel-to-reel tape.

Now he’s sitting on a confession that could ruin lives. He doesn’t want to hand it to the cops. He doesn’t want to bury it either. So he calls Perry Mason. Mason listens, calm as a surgeon. He tells Denair patient statements are privileged - but evidence of a crime? That’s another story. Mason warns him: truth serum can twist reality. Delusion isn’t admissible. Before anyone runs to the police, someone needs to dig deeper. Denair hires Mason to do the digging.

From there, the ground shifts. This 1956 case is a maze of secrets and sharp turns. Mason ends up accused of fabricating evidence - Hamilton Burger grinning like a wolf while he says it. Mason gives advice to hapless fools unwary enough to consider selective spilling:

Get this straight. You’re dealing with a murder case. No matter how awkward the truth is, you can’t fabricate a situation that will meet all of the requirements. You can’t get a falsehood that will dovetail with all of the facts. Sooner or later all of the other facts will be known. If your story doesn’t dovetail you’ll have to change it. If you change it under pressure the truth will then be ten times more awkward.

For a few chapters, it looks bad. Real bad. Gardner pushes Mason to the edge before pulling him back in the final pages.

TCOT Demure Defendant isn’t cozy. It’s clinical, almost surgical, in how it dissects fear and guilt. Gardner plays with the ethics of psychiatry, the fragility of memory, and the law’s hunger for certainty.

Fans of Perry, Della, and Paul will love the ride. New readers? Maybe not. Gardner’s tricks with evidence can feel glib and pat, like sleight of hand. But if you want a Mason novel that flirts with psychological suspense, this one delivers.

The Kalends of Ann Harding: Paris Bound

Note: This 1929 movie asks the question whether married couples can have a relationship with other people outside the marriage but remain committed to the marriage. Apparently in our culture every generation for the last century has to hash this issue out, given we still see on Reddit stories like “I proposed an open marriage, but I regret it.” Maybe antique movies with enduring themes will still have relevance for us post-moderns: literature is news that stays news, said Ezra Pound.

Paris Bound
1929 / 1:16
Tagline: “Is Love Crushed by Marriage?”
[internet archive]

This is the film version of the 1927 play by Philip Barry. He was known for exploring the intersectionality of love, marriage, and sex among the young, healthy, and wealthy. This seems to be one of Barry’s lesser-known plays and Hollywood never re-made this film version like they re-made Holiday, The Animal Kingdom, and The Philadelphia Story.

The wedding ceremony of Mary (Ann Harding) and James (Fredric March) seems to be an event that no one wants to attend. The guests look dubious, as if they were wishing they were someplace else. James’ former GF Noel is so obviously repining that the other guests tell Jim to give her a talking to, to snap her out of her decline. Jim is always restrained with her but Noel tells Jim that she is his heart and soul. Theatrical Noel also tells Mary that Mary has the wisest eyes Noel has ever seen.

As I said, the guests look stricken, like they were digesting a frightening diagnosis. This is strange because in the opening scene, her first scene ever in a motion picture, in a wedding dress, Ann Harding looks stunning. Breath-taking. The headpiece and veil make her look like she has descended from the Empyrean to show us funny-looking mortals something … wonderful. After almost one hundred years, in a brutalized monochrome print Ann Harding’s oval face radiates timeless elegance, with luminous eyes, refined features, and a serene expression. Her classic beauty blends intelligence, warmth, grace, and quiet strength, leaving a memorable impression today. The only other entrance that made me gape and gabble like this was that shot of Grace Kelly alighting from a cloud before broken-legged Stewart in her first scene in Rear Window.

Anyway, enough babbling. Jim and Mary promise never to quit each other though they grant “sex attraction” for third parties will happen. This kind of open-mindedness is often expressed by Barry’s characters until the fat is in the fire and characters conclude keeping more traditional attitudes leads to less mess in personal relations. Barry’s claims, I think, are that monogamy means fewer hurt feelings and thus in the long run exclusivity is more conducive to peace of mind.

To continue, they have a child and Mary plays her piano looking soulful and thoughtful (and few actresses do sad and pensive better than Ann Harding). Every now and then Jim has to take the big boat to Europe for six weeks at a time. He works for a publisher who has a stable of expatriate American writers so he needs to visit the Riviera to confer with them.

Mary is decidedly not a soldier about these lengthy separations but stays home for the sake of their toddler son. Thunderheads appear when Mary gets inadvertent word from Jim’s sister that circumstantial evidence suggests Jim and Noel met on the Rivera for discreet adult play. Mary wretchedly works with composer Richard Parrish on their ballet. Without conviction, she lamely argues that married people need vacations from each other once in a while. Richard however falls in love with Mary and declares his love for Mary. Poor Mary - when it rains, it pours.

This is an early talkie, so the sound in the IA print sounds muddy in places, has drop-outs and random noise, and an annoying echo of various words and phrases. Also the staging is static, not cinematic at all. The acting is sometimes histrionic – emphatic, earnest, with diction to ensure that theatre-goers in the back rows will catch every word. I think Fredric March and Ann Harding, both stage-trained, are natural in this early all-talking movie - they both know how to deliver a line.

European Reading Challenge #7

 I read this for the European Reading Challenge 2026.

The Whisperers: Private Life in Stalin's Russia - Orlando Figes

This monumental study of Stalin’s Russia is more than a chronicle of the Soviet era; it is a social history of the entire twentieth century in Russia. Orlando Figes reconstructs decades of deprivation, hunger, fear, and state terror through archival documents and the voices of ordinary people. His narrative captures how politics and economics penetrated private life, shaping families and identities under relentless pressure.

The book’s title refers to those who learned to “whisper” in order to survive - a metaphor for lives lived in secrecy and fear. Figes animates these lives with vivid detail, showing how repression seeped into kitchens, bedrooms, and even thoughts. Communal apartments, for example, were not merely a solution to housing shortages but instruments of surveillance. In shared kitchens, “even the tea kettles have ears.” A careless joke could lead to denunciation, interrogation, torture, and exile to the Gulag - or worse. Under such conditions, silence became a survival strategy, and public declarations of loyalty masked private despair.

My own understanding of these stories is sharpened by time spent in Riga in the early 1990s, where I met survivors of deportation and exile. They spoke of friends thrown from trains into the Siberian wilderness; of years spent forgetting their native tongue; of relatives killed in ways too brutal to repeat. These encounters echo Figes’s portraits of resilience and resignation.

One of the book’s most unsettling themes is complicity. Terror made nearly every citizen feel like both victim and accomplice. Denunciation could eliminate a rival or secure a coveted apartment. Ideological zeal - fueled by class hatred and fear - turned neighbors into informants. Yet, paradoxically, many victims continued to venerate Stalin, writing poems of devotion even after losing loved ones to his bloody regime. Figes probes this contradiction but admits its mystery: why do people cling to the author of their suffering? One survivor offers a grim rationale: “We would have fought the same way anyway… because it’s easier to tolerate violence from our own people than from foreigners.”

The book’s first half - covering collectivization, the liquidation of kulaks, and the Great Terror - feels deeper and more cohesive than the postwar chapters. Still, Figes’s attempt to frame the war as a dividing line is compelling. Postwar society, he argues, remembered not the suffering but the unity forged against Hitler, even as repression persisted in subtler forms.

The final chapters examine reactions to Stalin’s death: hope tempered by dread, as no one knew what would follow. Survivors had adapted to fear so thoroughly that its absence was disorienting. This is perhaps the book’s most chilling insight - that human beings can grow accustomed to any cruelty. State terror, given time, becomes ordinary.

The Whisperers is essential reading for anyone seeking to understand Russian society and the psychology of survival under totalitarianism. Its absence in Russian translation - and Figes’s status as an “un-person” there - speaks volumes about its power. Like his earlier Natasha’s Dance, this work combines scholarly rigor with narrative grace, but here the tone is darker, the questions more haunting. How does a society endure decades of violence and still whisper words of love to its oppressor? Figes does not offer easy answers.

Perry Mason 157: Cool & Lam and Connoisseurs

Note: As a child of the Sixties, I’ve always believed that what’s neglected or off the beaten path is cool. If something becomes wildly popular, I suspect it must have lost some of its edge - though I admit there are exceptions, like The Name of the Rose, a work of philosophy that somehow managed to be a best-selling novel.

Cool & Lam and Us Connoisseurs

Erle Stanley Gardner’s Cool and Lam books? They’re the B-side of his career, the deep cut we hardcore readers brag about knowing while everyone else hums the Perry Mason theme. Mason was Gardner’s platinum-selling run of singles: courtroom pyrotechnics, nice clothes, and a TV franchise that ran longer than many marriages. Radio, comic strips, articles in TV Guide - Mason was the brand, the icon, the guy who made courtroom pyrotechnics look like a well-tailored suit. America ate it up because America loves a hero who wins on logic and showbiz and never sweats saving the innocent from The Combine.

Cool and Lam? Forget it. No TV blitz, no radio soap, no Hollywood movies however bad. Just two oddballs in print: Bertha Cool, a bulldozer dripping in diamonds, and Donald Lam, a bantamweight disbarred lawyer who solves cases by seeing the legalities sideways. Try dumping that into mid-century American living rooms on Sunday night versus Bonanza. In the late Fifties and early Sixties America wanted its morality without nuance and its courtroom drama reassuring. Cool and Lam were built for laughs, for folks who grokked Catch-22 and One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Cool and Lam lived where ethics fray and human folly struts buck naked. That’s not prime-time material; that’s cult territory.

Branding killed them, too. Mason was marketed as the lawyer-detective supreme, a beacon of brilliance and virtue. Cool and Lam? They were the cool older cousins who unexpectedly show up at the family Christmas party and show signs of having an anarchic sense of humor fueled by psychedelics. Publishers and studios pumped Mason like he was the cure for polio, leaving Cool and Lam to hustle on their own dime. Result: Mason becomes a household deity; Cool and Lam roam the shadows.

And yet - here’s the kicker - the cognoscenti know better. We dig Cool and Lam because they punk the hard-boiled formula. Lam’s wiry intellect jousts with Cool’s blunt-force pragmatism. These books don’t have a narrative arc like Mason novels; they riff on ambiguity, nothing stays still for long. Writer Scott Bradfield brilliantly nails it:

Mason bends the law (within limits that the law allows), but he doesn’t break it. Cool and Lam, on the other hand, treat the law with almost brutal disregard: they lie to the cops and their clients and disturb crime scenes by removing (sometimes destroying) significant evidence and planting fake evidence and alibis. They seem to assume that the law  -  like the many grifters and con games they encounter, from salted gold mines to rigged slot machines, automobile insurance fraudsters, and insider trading - is just a game. And that whatever laws they don’t break were probably broken to begin with.

Families implode, business ethics wobble, and Gardner implies "A free mind, my friend, doesn’t get tangled up in nonsense not in its power. Be the Lam: see clearly, act kindly, and don’t let prejudice or anger drive the bus. Pack four virtues in your pocket and don a calm expression that says, ‘I’ve seen worse.’" If Mason is unpredictable but trustworthy Brubeck, Cool and Lam are bebop - fast, crooked, and sly while being kinda dumb. 

Bottom line: if you crave complexity, irony, and a worldview that doesn’t come shrink-wrapped in excellence, Cool and Lam are your jam. Mason may own the marquee, but Cool and Lam own the underground. And that’s where the real music plays, for we happy few anyway.

Perry Mason 156: TCOT Postponed Murder

Note: The manuscripts for two full-length Perry Mason novels were discovered in Erle Stanley Gardner's papers after his death in 1970:  The Case of the Fenced-In Woman and the story reviewed below. It’s hard to date when he wrote this, since Gardner carefully avoided topical references, but he does mention a yacht auto-pilot system which was probably available to the filthy rich after WWII, in the 1950s.

Perryisms to Live by: When I start unraveling a mystery, I can’t seem to find a brake. Every time I put my foot down, it hits the throttle.

The Case of the Postponed Murder – Erle Stanley Gardner

Mae Farr walks into Perry Mason’s office with a story as thin as a dime. She says she’s her sister, a candy-shop girl in a Northern California burg. Mason knows she’s fibbing. But she’s in a jam, and Mason likes jams - especially when they come with good eggs who’ve made bad choices. Her plea? Stop Penn Wentworth, a wealthy playboy with a yacht and a hobby of stalking “her sister” (herself).

Paul Drake, Mason’s gumshoe, digs up the dirt: Mae’s wanted for forging a fat check. The check bore Penn’s signature. Penn, a bookie with champagne tastes, throws parties on his yacht. Did Mae forge his name - or did someone forge hers? Mason files that under “Things to Ponder.”

Penn barges in, full of indignation and cologne, claiming Mae forged his name. Enter Harold Anders, a rancher with muck on his boots and love in his heart, ready to shake Penn’s tree for pestering Mae.

Soon Mason is summoned to Della Street’s apartment, where Mae and Harold are holed up. Mae spins a yarn: aboard Penn’s yacht, she fought off his advances when - blam! - Penn was shot through the skylight. Harold, conveniently on the dock with a gun, slipped and took a swim. Mason ferries Mae back to the yacht, only to find it missing.

Harold tossed his gun near a hot-dog stand in the rain. Mason and Della hunt for it, fail. The police hunt for it, fail harder. Meanwhile, the yacht resurfaces, cruising on auto-pilot. Penn, once in his underwear, now fully dressed and very dead, sports a bullet hole and a fatal case of inter-cranial bleeding. How did he get there? Add his soon-to-be ex-wife Juanita -temperamental as a teapot - and her rich beau Sid Eversel, a pilot with a camera and a country mansion. Stir well.

The legal fireworks? A preliminary hearing before Justice Scanlon, a Justice of the Peace who never finished high school and thinks “due process” is a plumbing term. He hates long cross-examinations and technical twaddle. The case doesn’t hit a courtroom until the last ten pages, where Scanlon steals the show with his homespun rulings. Watching Mason steer him without Scanlon noticing is like watching a cat teach a dog to climb trees. Scanlon may be the most colorful judge Gardner ever minted.

Now, about Gardner: his descriptions are perfunctory, his character sketches thinner than a weasel. Nearly every word outside quotation marks could vanish without harm. Editing? It’s unknown if Gardner did his usual final checking and polishing on this late manuscript. But I doubt it. “Swell” pops up like dandelions and so does the antique Americanism “It suits me down to the ground.” Chapter breaks are as awkward as a drunk at a wedding: 40-page Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 with its weird break should’ve been sliced into four chapters. And strong-minded Mae’s sudden lifestyle switch at the end? Explained by the traditional notion that women are prone to change their minds for purely emotional reasons. Quaint, if you like your gender stereotypes smelling of trunks stored under basement steps.

Yet - yet! – Gardner’s novels race like a greyhound at Derby Lane: breakneck plots, courtroom pyrotechnics, two women that want to do it their way, dialogue that jabs and feints like prizefighters. Gardner’s magic lies not in polish but in pace. And that, dear reader, is swell.

Perry Mason 155: You Can Die Laughing

Note: We fans read Erle Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason novels for his intricate plots and his magic at moving a story along. In contrast, we read the Cool and Lam novels for the energetic and engaging characters of Bertha Cool and Donald Lam. This outing, the 17^th in a body of work that can be read in any order, was released in 1957.

You Can Die Laughing – Erle Stanley Gardner writing as A. A. Fair

The PI team of Cool & Lam do their tango in this not quite hard-boiled kaleidoscope of L.A. Though the city does not quite become a character like Ross Macdonald’s Southern California, happily, all the usual elements are shoved back onstage wearing a louder neckties and sillier shoes: redheads that glow like neon beer signs, clients with the moral steadiness of politicians, property beefs, and the old standby, fear of scandal. But in this one, which feels more tightly packed than usual, the story is not so convoluted and the pace seems faster.

The book kicks off with Texan Lawton C. Corning: a raw‑boned pomade‑scented mogul with manure boots, latent motives, and a story that shifts faster than jukebox 45’s. He wants a woman found. Definitely no oil leases involved - pay no attention to that desolate parcel I want to buy. Lam buys none of it but takes the case anyway because the Cool & Lam business model is 1) get lied to, 2) get confused, 3) get in dutch with the cops, 4) get to the bottom of things, 5) get paid.

They find the woman before you can say “wait, what,” and she’s a comic‑strip bombshell straight from a teenage boy’s dingy backroom of a subconscious: red hair, blue eyes, a figure like Daisy Mae in Dogpatch. She speaks exclusively in Babe-speak. Suddenly her husband wants to sue Cool & Lam for defamation, the nosy neighbor forgets everything she claimed, and Lam smells something rotten.

Bertha Cool, owner-operator of a PI agency is not a feminist by ideology, politics, or inclination. She's not advocating equality and she’s certainly not mentoring other women. She’s too busy bulldozing through everyone - men, women, clients, cops, and her partner poor Donald Lam.

Bertha's temper visibly began to rise. "There are times when I could take this paper knife and cut your throat from ear to ear, Donald Lam! What the hell do you mean you rented her?"

One‑hundred‑sixty‑five pounds of managerial black hole, attracting trouble of all kinds inexorably toward her office. She’s insulted professionally and cosmically when clients assume B. Cool is a man, and she gets back by being tougher than any three Texan lunkheads. Meanwhile little Donald Lam, bantam sleuth and disbarred lawyer, skates on the edge of legality like a kid doing figure‑eights on late March ice. A real “brainy little bastard” - Bertha’s words - who irritates her into doing the right thing.

Granted this outing feels a little lightweight and more straightforward than we like, almost like an extended short story, but it is well worth reading for the interplay not only between Bertha and Donald but Donald and persons of interest.

Matinee Musings: The Devil's Holiday

Note: A good date movie if your sweetie has a demonstrated liking for Depression‑era morality plays.* It’s short, talky, and sincere. Nancy Carroll’s charm sparks conversation, and debating mercy and forgiveness afterward beats potentially explosive topics like who gets the dog if you break up.  “Do you think redemption should come from love, honesty … or just admitting everything before Act Three?”

The Devil's Holiday
1930 / 1:18
Tagline: “A fast and furious modern merry-go-round of falsehood and frame-ups romance and realism”
[youtube]

Directed by Edmund Goulding, this Pre-Code curio begins like yet another cynical take on The Way We Live Now circa the slough of the Depression. Nancy Carroll’s Hallie Hobart is a professional “nice girl,” a city-wise operator who parades as a respectable manicurist while at night sweet-talking prospects into the arms of salesmen hawking high-priced goods and services. She takes her tidy three percent, thank you, for social engineering with a smile. Under the gimlet eye of Ned Sparks’ middle-man Charlie - every line a staccato calculation - Hallie meets Phillips Holmes’ David Stone, a hayseed innocent with a backbone stiffened by a sanctimonious papa (Hobart Bosworth, who outdoes Raymond Massey in East of Eden for granite-faced and unyielding, yet vulnerable).

Carroll is the picture - full stop. There’s wit in her eyes and fatigue behind it, a practiced brightness giving way to something close to conscience. It’s that flicker - call it soul, call it wise mind - that keeps Hallie from becoming just another fast-talking moll in a coarse-talking picture. Holmes is earnest and serviceable, with Carroll in the first of three pairings (Stolen Heaven, Broken Lullaby). Bosworth brings the heavy furniture of morality - the kind that includes being tolerant but not too. And terrific Sparks, of course, clicks and clacks with stone-hearted efficiency, a business shark whose pulse can be read on the Dow.

What Goulding serves up, beneath the fancy duds and eternal hustling, is a moral melodrama that refuses to be priggish even as it inches toward repentance. Sin here isn’t a single slip; corner cutting becomes a habit. Hallie’s mistake isn’t merely the masquerade of manicurist for escort - it’s the gradual giving up of her own Iowa standards and how imperceptibly she’s learned to keep feeling and thinking severely apart. The film’s shrewder than its plot suggests. The movie understands that normalization of deviance - a.k.a. losing your ethical way - rarely arrives all at once; it creeps in through small compromises, each one nudging the next, until a single, grotesque transgression begins to look reasonable. Like love, self-deception and destructive habits have a way of stealing up on you.

Redemption, when it arrives, is coaxed out - painfully - through recognition of guilt. Hallie, ashamed, realizes she can’t leave David. But Goulding doesn’t kid us movie-goers. Reconciliation is messy, shame is paralyzing. The film gets across that atonement isn’t a solo act, it happens in a web of human connections - someone else has to listen, with an open heart, and forgive. 

So, it is worth seeing even though the wonderful ZaSu Pitts is only in the opening scene, playing her usual switchboard operator. Black actor Oscar Smith plays a bellhop in a brief scene but he is given no lines so his dysfluency isn’t used for outdated comic relief. The movie is worth seeing for Nancy Carrol’s Oscar-nominated performance, a quiet triumph. She lost the Best Actress award to Norma Shearer, who was phenomenal in The Divorcee.

________________________________________________________________________________

* What do you mean this population numbers about a dozen movie-goers? Picture me looking as dumb-founded as Philip Seymour Hoffman in Twister when hysterical Jamie Gertz was castigating the storm chasers, “You people are all crazy!”

Perry Mason 154: Happy Birthday Erle Stanley Gardner

Erle Stanley Gardner, July 17, 1889 – March 11, 1970

Let’s not pretend Erle Stanley Gardner was a stylist. He wasn’t, and - God bless him - he knew it. Gardner said the trick was to keep writing and learn from the lumps you take from the critics. That’s not artful, but it’s honest, and honesty is a fair beginning for a man who made his living by putting fictional clients in dutch with the law and getting them off.

Gardner is kin to the popular mystery writers who sell by the carload. He shares their thrift with words. His vocabulary sometimes looks like a pantry half-stocked: two trusty adverbs - “abruptly” and “evidently” - like salt and pepper, forever at hand. Faces turn into “masks,” eyes “twinkle” on cue, and the prose keeps time about as well as a drummer with mittens. If you’re waiting for rhythm or atmosphere, you’ll miss your train. Gardner isn’t painting Hawaiian moonlight like Biggers; he’s pouring clues and stuff like “law of agency,” one after another, and trusting hardcore readers will keep up.

Characterization? He pares it to the rind. Folks in these books are not so much people as types with mannerisms. Perry Mason, thinking hard, jams his thumbs into the armholes of his vest and paces. Paul Drake, taking ease, slings both legs over the chair arm like a man born in a furniture warehouse. And Los Angeles - though it’s nearly always the scene - is more Zoom background than character. It doesn’t sweat, menace, or sing the way Simenon’s Paris does, or push the plot like Ross Macdonald’s Southern California. It’s a set with a fine supply of doors for suspects to enter and exit.

The books have grown quaint, which is a polite way to say they creak. A modern reader bumps into the museum pieces: cuspidors, carbon paper, hat boxes, gladstone bags, and a hunt for telephones that would make a millennial wonder. The idioms (as right as a rivet) smell of attic trunks; the jobs and fashions arrive with a grin and a question mark. You can laugh; Gardner will not be offended. He didn’t come to win the Pulitzer. He came to keep the plot moving.

Even the names have dust on them. In The Case of the Daring Decoy the roll call sounds like a high-toned tea: Gifford, Rosalind, Mildred, Evangeline, Norton, Ruth. Call me a lumbering oaf of the old school, but I find it easier to make a Phyllis an aunt than a siren.

Why read Gardner, then? Because the man built something solid where it matters. Perry Mason is a lunch‑pail champion in a sharp suit. He is the lawyer as fighter, not functionary. He doesn’t let the chips fall; he kicks them back onto the table and argues the dealer into a new shuffle. Judges, district attorneys, cops - good, bad, and indifferent - stand between the client and daylight, and Mason shouldered through on behalf of folks without friends in high places. He’s a private man pitched against public machinery, and he keeps his elbows out.

There’s a nostalgia in it, and not only for hat closets. When I was little kid in the Sixties, Americans had a talent for Hell, No. They argued, they balked, they took a dim view of orders barked by any overbearing blowhard in a uniform. The fashion now is for agreeable virtues - tolerant, sensitive, flexible, mindful - which often read, in office life, as polite ways to be steamrolled by The Combine. Mason is tonic against that. He reminds you that somebody can still put up a fight without being all resilient about it.

Make no mistake: Gardner’s world is not polite society with the silver laid. But while the blackmail and murder are grimy and the motives are sharp - greed, jealousy, desire - the tone generally refuses the abyss. There’s less sadism than sweat. If the rooms reek with cigarette smoke, the moral air is still breathable. Gardner worked a long time in the real world - law offices, boxing gyms, vacationed in auto camps to keep in touch with the folks - and he knew how mines and banks operate. That knowledge gives the stories their ballast. The world is tough as taxes and, in some corners, gone to seed.

Where Gardner shines is the old practical magic: plotting. He hustles. He stacks incidents like plates in a diner rush, and somehow gets them all to the right table in time for the courtroom fireworks. If you’re after escape, he’s company to keep. Say what you will about Kipling, Maugham, Simenon, Ian Fleming - these are the writers you blushingly confess to enjoying, writing what Orwell called “good bad books.”

As to the grand judgment, Raymond Chandler, in his letters, tipped his hat to Gardner’s knack for building a case you had to turn the pages to resolve.

That intensity may be a matter of style, situation, character, emotional tone, or idea. ... It may also be a perfection of control over the movement of a story similar to the control a great pitcher has over the ball. That is to me what you have more than anything else and more than anyone else. ... Every page throws the hook for the next. I call this a kind of genius.

 

The Ides of Robert Florey: Meet Boston Blackie

Note: Chester Morris said the character Boston Blackie wrecked his career but it was also a comeback vehicle for him. Possessing an effortless urbanity, a sly wit, and the sort of raffish charm that no studio publicity department could manufacture, Morris transformed a dependable series of B-picture programmers into something far more enduring. His Blackie moved through the criminal underworld with the confidence of a man who knew all its angles, yet retained the likability that kept audiences firmly in his corner. 

Meet Boston Blackie
1941 / 1:00
Tagline: “SPIES STALK CONEY ISLAND!”
[internet archive]

Boston Blackie is one of those distinctly American creations who could only flourish in the movies: a gentleman crook who violates the law with enthusiasm while remaining, somehow, more trustworthy than many of the men charged with enforcing it. Safecracker, magician, improvisational escape artist, and amateur criminologist, Blackie occupies that narrow strip of moral real estate between outlaw and civic benefactor. He steals when necessary, lies when convenient, and yet remains possessed of a code that makes him more honorable than the respectable citizens forever trying to pin something on him.

Like all great pulp heroes, he survives less by brute force than by velocity of thought. Problems arise, policemen bluster, villains scheme, and Blackie simply moves faster than everyone else. He treats danger as an irritating interruption and authority as a puzzle to be solved. One gets the sense that if locked in a bank vault, handcuffed to a radiator, and guarded by a platoon of armed men, he would emerge ten minutes later carrying the guard captain's wallet and offering instructions on improving workplace efficiency.

Director Robert Florey, that French stylist who brought visual sophistication to even the most modest productions, attacks the material with energy bordering on mischief. The camera rarely sits still when it can climb, lean, peek, or swoop instead. It observes the action from improbable angles, transforming ordinary fairground attractions into looming structures of menace. The midway becomes a maze. The carnival rides become mechanical monsters. Even a simple walkway seems laden with threat when filtered through Florey's restless imagination.

The amusement park itself emerges as the film's true star. By daylight these places promise cotton candy, first romances, and indigestion from regrettable food choices. By night they become dreamscapes of blinking lights and distorted shadows. The Tunnel of Love, ordinarily the setting for awkward courtship, is repurposed into a stage for pursuit and violence. Murder lurks behind painted scenery. Romance and danger occupy neighboring compartments in the same little boat.

Naturally there are chases, because a crime picture without a chase is rather like a circus without elephants. Massive automobiles thunder across the screen with the invulnerability enjoyed only by vehicles in 1940s motion pictures. Fire hydrants explode into geysers. Tires squeal. Nobody ever seems concerned about insurance claims. The laws of physics are suspended in favor of spectacle, and the audience is all the happier for it.

The police fare less well. They are not corrupt so much as chronically exasperated. Their threats are colorful, their patience limited, and their investigative methods frequently eclipsed by Blackie's intuition. Once again the hero finds himself trapped in that familiar predicament of knowing more than the authorities while simultaneously being suspected by them. It is a formula as old as the series itself, but like a favorite tune, its familiarity is part of the pleasure.

Comic relief arrives in the form of The Runt, who functions somewhere between valet, sidekick, accomplice, and mobile source of confusion. Mercifully, the humor supports rather than derails the narrative. No one behaves like a refugee from a different movie. The jokes emerge naturally from character and situation, allowing the suspense to remain intact.

What ultimately makes the picture work is its breezy faith in intelligence, adaptability, and personal freedom. Blackie wins not because he possesses official authority but because he possesses ingenuity. In a world crowded with crooks, bureaucrats, and blunderers, he survives through wit, nerve, and optimism. The result is an entertaining little thriller that moves briskly, looks splendid, and offers a reminder that sometimes the fox is more admirable than either the hounds pursuing him or the wolves he is hunting.

Perry Mason 153: Trust the Process?

Note: People often want others to like what they like because it validates their own choices, fosters a sense of belonging, and allows them to share the enjoyment of experiences. While these impulses are deeply rooted in human nature, the motivations behind them vary from person to person. For my part, I would hate to see Erle Stanley Gardner's work fade into obscurity the way Mignon Eberhart's novels largely have. At the same time, I recognize that this is a natural process: yesterday's popular authors are often forgotten as tastes change and new generations of readers find different stories that speak to them. That said, my sense of identity is not tied to my reading preferences. If someone mocks or dismisses the books I enjoy, I do not take it as a personal affront. Readers are free to like what they like, and just as importantly, they are under no obligation to defend their tastes to anyone else.

Trust the Process? Tell That to TikTok: Perry Mason Meets Today’s Inveterate Institutional Skepticism

A modern reader can walk into a Perry Mason novel carrying a certain amount of suspicion. The police may be mistaken. The prosecutor may be overconfident. The legal system may be tilted in ways that produce bad outcomes. In many contemporary stories, that's the starting point.

Then along comes Perry Mason.

Mason lives in a world where the problem is not that objective reality is unknowable, but that those in authority repeatedly fail to recognize the truth. Witnesses lie or are just mistaken and think they are telling truth. Police jump to conclusions. Circumstantial evidence points in the wrong direction. The authorities become convinced of a theory and stop looking. Mason's job is to keep looking.

That distinction matters. Gardner's novels run on faith in process. Not blind faith, and certainly not faith in authority, but faith that careful investigation, logical reasoning, and relentless questioning can eventually force reality to reveal itself. Mason will occasionally bend a rule, but usually in the spirit of a mechanic tweaking an engine. He isn't trying to blow up the machine. He wants to make it work properly.

This helps explain why Mason remains such an appealing character. He's a virtuoso. He notices what everyone else misses. He asks the question nobody thought to ask. He walks into situations that appear hopelessly tangled and patiently begins pulling on the right threads. A large part of the pleasure of reading Gardner comes from watching smarts and expertise in action.

What Gardner is selling, however, is not cynicism. Mason spends an extraordinary amount of time exposing police mistakes, prosecutorial overreach, and official complacency. Yet the novels never suggest that justice is impossible or that the system is irredeemably corrupt. Their criticism is corrective rather than destructive.

The structure of the stories makes this clear. A case begins with appearances pointing firmly in one direction. The wrong suspect is arrested. The evidence seems overwhelming. The authorities congratulate themselves on a quick solution. Then Mason starts asking questions. More facts emerge. Assumptions fall apart. The picture changes.

The remedy is almost always the same: more investigation, more scrutiny, and better reasoning.

That is why the courtroom in a Gardner novel is not a sham or a theatrical backdrop. It is the place where error is tested. The drama comes from watching a flawed process gradually become a more accurate one.

A skeptical reader might reasonably object that Mason's victories are individual rather than systemic. He clears one innocent client at a time; he does not reform society. Fair enough. But that limitation is precisely what keeps the books from becoming cynical. They do not argue that the law is a fraud. They argue that the law is a human tool - imperfect, sometimes misused, but still capable of producing justice when placed in competent hands.

Gardner's underlying optimism can feel almost old-fashioned today. The enduring appeal of Perry Mason lies in that optimism. Gardner's novels insist that mistakes, biases, and institutional failures are real, but they also insist that truth remains discoverable and that determined individuals can compel authorities to recognize it. The books are not warnings about collapse; they are arguments for the power of reason, preparation, and persistence to make imperfect institutions work better.

Perry Mason 152: TCOT Vagabond Virgin

Note: How could anyone not finish a novel whose first chapter poses this immortal question: “Can you put a virgin in jail as a vagrant?” That’s not just a hook - it’s a literary speed bump that makes you slam the brakes and say, “Wait…what?” You know you’re in for a ride when Chapter One sounds like a cross between a law textbook and a bad pickup line.

The Case of the Vagabond Virgin - Erle Stanley Gardner

John Racer Addison had everything: wealth, power, and a name that blew open doors in the world of big retail. But success breeds enemies, and Addison was about to learn that the price of privilege could be murder.

It began innocently enough. Returning from a business trip, Addison gave a ride to Veronica Dale - a girl with platinum hair, wide blue eyes, and a story that tugged at his conscience. She had traveled far, had no money, and looked heartbreakingly vulnerable. Addison arranged a hotel room for her, alone, and slipped her some cash. It was an act of kindness. Or so he thought.

Hours later, Veronica was arrested for vagrancy - the arresting officer figured she would be safer in jail than the mean streets of L.A. Addison panicked. A scandal could destroy him. He called Perry Mason - the man who could turn disaster into triumph. Mason sprung the girl, and soon Veronica was working in Addison’s department store (remember those?), selling hosiery and flashing that innocent smile. 

Then came Eric Hansell. Red-haired, smooth-talking, and rotten to the core. He threatened Addison with a headline that could ruin him: “Department Store Tycoon Sets Up Blonde in Love Nest.” Addison saw his empire crumbling. He turned to Mason, and together they plotted to outwit the blackmailer.

But before the plan could unfold, Addison’s partner - Edgar Z. Ferrell - was found dead. Murdered. And Addison was the prime suspect.

The courtroom became a battlefield. Hamilton Burger, pompous and preening, thought he had Mason cornered. He didn’t. Mason played his cards with icy precision, dismantling the prosecution piece by piece. The climax was pure Gardner - a twist so audacious it left the jury gasping and Burger fuming.

This 1948 novel isn’t just a whodunit. It’s a study in greed, lust, and the fragile veneer of respectability. Addison, impulsive and irritable, is vivid in his desperation. Veronica, the girl who could topple empires with a smile, is a reminder that beauty has unintended consequences in this wacky world. Even Sergeant Holcomb, arrogant and ominous, adds a note of menace to the mix.

Gardner doesn’t waste time on psychology - his characters live in the moment, driven by fear, anger and desire. But in this story, they leap off the page - unusual for Gardner characters to be so life-like. Yes, the ending may feel rushed, but the journey is pure thrill - a glittering cocktail of sex, money, and murder.

Matinee Musings: Among the Missing

Note: In City Limits (1934) two homeless guys teach a tycoon to enjoy life. In Hitchhike Lady (1935) two women meet on the road and form a heart-warming bond. Midnight Mary (1933) is a fast, economical crime melodrama with a tough shell but a tender center – the heroine’s longing for a better life and real connection gives the film its emotional weight. This is another little movie of the time, forgotten, with a big soul.

Among the Missing
1934 / 1:06
Tagline: “His life was a crooked path until he crossed the path of romance!”
[youtube]

This wonderful little tale is the kind of modest studio picture that slips past you if you’re looking only for Pre-Code naughtiness. But it rewards attention with an intelligence determined not to be limited by technical hassles. At a time when early sound films were still hugging the safety of their padded, echo-proof interiors, Columbia’s programmers were not expected to take risks.

Yet here is a film that ventures out into Los Angeles at night - into its streets, its shadows, its semi-smoggy air - and comes back with something like authenticity. The city is an authentic space. The dim pools of streetlight, the casual movement of passersby, the clutter of exterior life all lend the film a kind of immediacy that studio-bound contemporaries rarely achieve. There is less theatrical posing, more observation; less contrivance, more texture. The result is a tone that feels unexpectedly modern - grittier, yes, but also more genuine.

But also humane. That humanity is most striking in the film’s curious marriage of hardboiled criminality and domestic melodrama. Jewel thieves, in the 1930s imagination, belong to a Raffles world of speed, elan, and hard edges. Yet Among the Missing deposits them in a space that insists on pots on the stove, on swept floors, on bowls of home-made doughnuts. The antique store is not merely a front for fencing stolen jewelry; it becomes, under the influence of an old lady on the run from exploitation, a home. The transformation is effected by Aunt Martha (Henrietta Crosman), and here the film’s real originality asserts itself. Not a victim, she is, rather, a moral force - quiet, observant, busy and full of practical wisdom.

Driven from her nephew’s household by petty ingratitude, Martha wanders around Los Angeles and, by narrative coincidence that doesn’t feel forced, into the orbit of two thieves running an antique shop as a front. If the setup sounds like boilerplate, the execution is anything but. The crooks – Tommy (Richard Cromwell), all callow entitlement and impulsive resentment; the English cutter of jewels (Ivan Simpson), perpetually dissatisfied; and the older Gordon (Arthur Hohl), wily and watchful - are sharply drawn types. They expect to use Martha as camouflage, a harmless old housekeeper to deflect suspicion. Instead, they find themselves subject to her steady gaze.

Martha cooks. She cleans. She makes pancakes. These gestures, simple and unadorned, begin to erode Tommy’s carefully cultivated hardness. She recognizes more than he intends to reveal, and he senses it. Tommy bristles under her scrutiny, interpreting her concern as interference, her double-edged remarks about living in a “big house” as baleful prediction.

Yet it is precisely in these exchanges - half domestic nagging, half moral instruction - that the film finds its tension. Martha does not sermonize; she assumes Tommy has a conscience somewhere and speaks to it. She turns the police away when necessary, protecting Tommy even as she reminds him Judy (Billie Seward) is too nice a girl to be allied with a thief who is prison bound, creating a space in which gratitude, guilt, and the possibility of change can coexist.

The hideout, then, becomes something more than a backdrop for crime. It is a moral arena, like anyplace can be should a movie-goer want to frame it that way.* Martha’s belief in Tommy - her insistence that he can imagine a life beyond grand theft and incarceration - introduces an emotional counterpoint that reminds us everybody counts and everything they do counts too. The film never lets Tommy entirely off the hook; he remains petulant, self-justifying, and only intermittently responsive until he sees the cold hard facts about his partners in crime.

In lesser hands, this blend of grit and gentility might dissolve into syrup. Here, it’s persuasive. The Los Angeles nights give the film its edge; Aunt Martha gives it its conscience. Between them, Among the Missing becomes something unexpectedly resonant: a small film with a big heart, in keeping with Oscar Wilde’s radical notion that “Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

* I thus give away my entire philosophy of movie reviewing in a phrase.

The Nones of Robert Florey: Registered Nurse

Note: A moralist like me must object that this movie blurs standards of sexual propriety and professional ethics. Its plot involves prostitution, venereal disease, and undercover deception, portraying a nurse entangled with criminals. Such themes, handled sensationally for melodrama, could be seen as undermining respectability, chastity, and trust in medical professionals generally. But .. Bebe Daniels! She’s so likable she could over-charge me for a second melodrama sandwich and I’d thank her for the privilege. Bebe Daniels! Bebe Daniels!

Registered Nurse
1934 / 1:03
Tagline: “A blazing closeup of nurses in love - and the men who take their kisses!”
[internet archive]

This Pre-Code melodrama is set in a hospital with a focus on the nursing staff. The head nurse and the Mama of a brothel compare notes on recruitment and retention of “good girls” for staff. The Mama complains “Ya know, your best girls are always leaving ya, setting up in business for themselves. Sometimes right across the street.”

“It's one of those businesses that just runs itself,” the Mama says. “You know, it just rolls on and on and on.” Contrast the placid uneventfulness of a sporting house with the hospital’s churning soap opera. In a moment of indiscretion, the Mama lets on that she recognizes an intern as a patron of her “establishment,” to a nurse’s suspicious surprise. 

Not just sex, but death too. A little boy dies before he can bring his dog to visit his favorite nurse. A mother dies, survived by four small children. A young hoodlum shoots dead a policeman who was going to marry one of the nurses as soon as they had enough money.

Using this fatal shooting in support of his argument not to postpone anything in this cycle of suffering and rebirth, Dr. Lyle Talbot seduces Nurse Bebe Daniels with the tried and true line “Life is short and uncertain.” Poor Bebe is in a bad way because New York family law prohibits her from divorcing an incurably insane spouse.

“Whoever figures out these things,” observes the head nurse, “makes a hash of it,” which seems to me to be a swipe at both New York politicians and the author of all things. But cynicism and nihilism, we movie-goers know well, come with the territory in a Pre-Code picture.

The movie does not try to look like a documentary but succeeds in appearing “slice of life,” a look and feel that Warner Brothers went for in the early Thirties. Violent drunks in the emergency room. Gangsters and madams beating each other up. In the cafeteria, doctors make non-medical staff turn green with descriptions of “dirty” operations of infected organs. Nurses constantly smoking in no-smoking areas is a running joke. Nurse Bebe smacks out of control patients to enculturate American values. “Hey! Dames don’t slap me where I come from!” immigrant crook Sidney Toler gripes in an unidentifiable accent. And Bebe answers, “If you don’t behave yourself, I’ll slap you so hard you’ll forget where you came from.”

Granting the picture looks gritty enough, we still have questions about its tenuous relationship with what we laughingly refer to as reality. Did nurses really wear shoes with high heels at work? Why does gangster Sidney Toler stay in the hospital when he has only a broken leg? Was beacon of civilization New York really a state that disallowed mental incompetence or insanity as grounds for divorce?* Given that the first lobotomy in the USA was not performed until 1936, what surgery was going to cure certain psychoses in 1934? Did medical staff really don their formal wear for a party for a couple getting married? Did doctors really talk about “how far” they’ve gotten (“Have you got to first base?” “I’m still on the bench with her.”)? Was there really a cocktail called the bosom caresser “because it warms you all the way down?”

Bebe Daniels of the gorgeous voice has forlorn facial expressions that’re fetching. She has the ability to be still and yet give off energy that grabs the attention – maybe she transferred that knack from dance or the silents. Kind, clever, unstoppable - sigh. 

Sidney Toler is a gangster that the madam (Irene Franklin) calls a “big begonia.” He’s more sinister than flowering and the movie-goer can assume for him violence is the first resort. Directed by a film noir pioneer, Robert Florey, the movie is often visually striking, with odd camera angles, intense close-ups, night scenes and great use of light.

As an example of another Pre-Code element about this movie, a suicide is treated as the ghost in the machine that makes everything turn out hunky-dory. The most Pre-Code thing is that all the characters are OK with suicide tying everything up with a nice little bouquet. So the amoral atmosphere is not exactly for the kiddish at heart.

* In fact, yes, adultery was the only grounds allowed for a very long time in not only the great state of New York.

Perry Mason 151: Gorilla at Large

Note: In a newspaper interview Raymond Burr described his school years as “not particularly happy ones.” “When you’re a little fat boy in a public school, or any kind of school, he said, “you’re just persecuted something awful.” He learned to control himself probably because he realized he’d be fighting all the time if he didn’t. He developed preternatural powers of concentration, which in his acting life made him study scenes to the point where he seemed comatose: “He’s not looking at you, you’re just there,” said fellow actor Barbara Hale. “I was just a fat heavy,” Burr told journalist James Bawden in 1993. “I split the heavy parts with Bill Conrad. We were both in our twenties playing much older men. I never got the girl but I once got the gorilla in a 3-D picture called Gorilla at Large.”

Gorilla at Large
1954 / 1:23
Tagline: “The hate-beast who lives to kill is loose!”
[internet archive]     

Raymond Burr gets top billing as Cyrus Miller, the proprietor of the delightfully named Garden of Evil amusement park, and he attacks the role with considerably more gusto than the script probably deserves. Burr was one of those actors who never seemed capable of giving less than a professional performance, and here he lends Miller a mixture of authority, resentment, and wounded pride that keeps the character interesting even when the plot threatens to wander off and trash all its commitments.

There are moments when one suspects Brother Ray took the assignment partly to cash a check and partly to remind Hollywood that he could do more than glower ominously from the sidelines. If so, the gamble pays off. He finds several shades to play: the calculating showman, the suspicious husband, and ultimately a man whose certainty gives way to disappointment and despair. Burr was always better than many of the projects he appeared in, and this is one of those occasions.

He is helped enormously by the supporting cast. Anne Bancroft, as the trapeze artist Mlle. Laverne, radiates danger in a remarkably compact package. She has the kind of presence that can make a room full of men forget their better judgment. Lee J. Cobb, meanwhile, stomps through the picture as a detective who delivers dialogue with such conviction that even the most improbable lines sound like pearls of wisdom. When he growls, “We’ve got two gorillas around here and one of them is a murderer,” resistance is futile.

Burr's performance works because he never tips his hand too early. Miller begins as a chilly, manipulative operator, but Burr gradually reveals the insecurity beneath the bravado. His jealousy and hurt feel genuine. Particularly effective is the sequence in the police office where he struggles with the window; it is a small moment, but Burr's frustration and helplessness tell us more about the man than pages of dialogue could.

Nor can the film be dismissed merely as bargain-bin entertainment. The Technicolor is magnificent. The circus setting positively explodes with gaudy reds, blues, and yellows. Cameron Mitchell sports hair of such an enthusiastic copper-red hue that it deserves its own screen credit. Having slimmed down considerably, Burr cuts an impressively sharp figure in a succession of well-tailored blue suits.

And then there is Bancroft. Born Anna Maria Luisa Italiano, she possesses a smoldering presence that the camera clearly adores. When she sizes up Cameron Mitchell, her expression suggests she has just discovered another willing volunteer for a lifetime membership in the sucker club. John Tannen contributes a memorably slippery turn as a publicity man whose instincts for blackmail are almost as finely developed as his instincts for self-preservation.

Taken together, the performances, the color photography, and Burr's unexpectedly layered work elevate the picture above its lurid premise. One arrives expecting a curiosity. One leaves remembering Raymond Burr.

As for the Perry Mason connection, ape-keeper Peter Whitney played an ill-tempered farmer in TCOT Pathetic Patient, an irascible gangster in TCOT Stand-In Sister and a venerable sea captain in TCOT Wrongful Writ. He was one of those big guys that sadly don't last too long: he died of a heart attack in 1972 at the young age of 55. 

Pre-Mason Raymond Burr
Please Murder Me (1956) [internet archive] [my review]
I Love Trouble (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Sleep My Love (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Ruthless (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Pitfall (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Walk a Crooked Mile (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Raw Deal (1948) [internet archive] [my review]
Station West (1948) [my review]
Red Light (1949) [internet archive] [my review]
Abandoned (1949) [internet archive] [my review]
Borderline (1950) [internet archive] [my review]
Unmasked (1950) [internet archive] [my review]
The Whip Hand (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
Bride of the Gorilla (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
M (1951) [internet archive] [my review]
His Kind of Woman (1951) [internet archive] [my review]                 
FBI Girl (Nov 1951) [internet archive] [my review]
Mara Maru (April 1952) [internet archive] [my review]
Horizons West (1952) [internet archive] [my review]
Blue Gardenia (1953) [internet archive] [my review]
Gorilla at Large (1954) [internet archive] [my review]

The Kalends of Robert Florey: A Study in Scarlet

Note: As a young French boy, Robert Florey became obsessed with Hollywood movies in the silent era. He came to the US and became the King of B-Movies at Paramount, proud that he should bring craft to a studio system that churned out movies like sausage.

A Study in Scarlet
1933 / 1:11
Tagline: “SHERLOCK HOLMES Playing his Part in the Drama of Life-love and Dangerous Living!”
[internet archive]

The movie opens with a Robert Florey-type touch: we see a guy who’s been strangled through the broken glass of a railway carriage window. The death of Robert Murphy is ruled a suicide, though how exactly one strangles one’s self is left obscure. Sherlock Holmes is consulted by the widow Murphy, who is miffed at being left penniless by her husband’s executor.

Murphy was a member of a secret society. The Scarlet Ring is headed by lawyer Thaddeus Merrydew. The terms of membership in the society are that the assets of any of its deceased members will be divided among the remaining members (widows are left in the cold).

Who in their right mind, the movie-goer wonders again, would belong to such a society given that it is unsurprising when members start exiting this vale of tears before their time, helped along by gunshots? When Captain Pyke is shot, Sherlock Holmes focuses on his mysterious Chinese widow (Anna May Wong) as well as the nasty Merrydew. Other members are put in a dying way: Malcom Dearing first, then Mr. Baker. There is also an attempt on the life of young Eileen Forrester, who became a reluctant society member upon the death of her father. She engaged to a guy so dumb that she gets kidnapped when he is tricked.

Reginald Owen is a 20th century Sherlock Holmes. He has the manner of a successful business executive, which does not comport with my image of a believable Holmes. I mean, Holmes ought to have a slight whiff of eccentricity and instability whereas Owen always has his feet on the ground. Dr. Watson takes a minimal part and he's stuck in the Victorian era. The English actors have that offhand manner of being offensive that makes American rudeness seem merely out of ignorance. I mean, the English can act like cold bloody monsters with no effort at all (in movies; in real life, they’re always ever so nice).

Gleefully wicked, Anna May Wong is smiling that inimitable “I’m gonna chop you up into little pieces” smile.  She’s well-dressed too, as usual. She could wear a poncho and look poised and elegant. She’s in the movie for 10 minutes, tops, and she’s her compelling self for every second.

The plot is nothing like the original novel. In another Robert Florey touch, the subjective camera is used when Marrydew is consulting a hit man. The secret passage is pretty cool as is the fog here and there. But the utter lack of music – didn’t the silence ring in 1935 like it rings in 2026? - seems strange.

European Reading Challenge #6

I read this for the European Reading Challenge 2026.

Death and the Dutch Uncle – Patricia Moyes

Released in 1968, this is the eighth mystery starring Henry and Emmy Tibbett. Having recently been promoted from Inspector to Superintendent, Henry is getting used to his new duties and his office in New Scotland Yard bit by bit.

A petty hood who worked in hotel kitchens between temping on individual heists gets himself shot dead in the restroom of a private bar. Henry is assigned to the investigation.

It happens, however, that Henry and Emmy host a dinner with the brother of the victim in Death on the Agenda. Gordon Trapp is suspicious over the sudden deaths of two judges on an international board which adjudicates border disputes between countries. He tells Henry the two judges were to vote on a case between two newly independent African countries. I’m giving nothing away because the veteran reader of mysteries already knows the two sudden deaths turn out to be murders.

Because Henry and Emmy find themselves immersed in an international conflict, this feels more to me like an out-and-out thriller than a detective story. Though stable middle-class people, the Tibbets didn’t mind getting into breathless action. So this thriller reminded me of Margery Allingham in Traitor’s Purse or Nicholas Blake in Smiler with a Knife or Victor Canning in The Python Project.

Moyes was a traveler so sometimes her mysteries are set in England touristy areas or foreign climes. For instance, Down Among the Dead Men had the backdrop of sailing on England’s East Coast and  Dead Men Don’t Ski was set in the Italian Alps. This one is set in rural Holland with scenery and houses rendered vividly. Moyes’ second husband was a linguist, so the character of the interpreter Gordan Trapp is persuasive. 

There's a diverse variety of people and places in Moyes’ books that makes them different from many mysteries. She still retains the deft characterization, plot twists, exciting climaxes and surprising reveals that we like in traditional police procedurals, before whodunnits got socially conscious, regional, lengthy and dark in the Seventies.