The Kalends of The Thirties: The Rich Are Always with Us

Note: I think about names too much so I pondered the origin of the female name Malbro. I thought at first it was a compromise of mom’s Mallory and pop’s Brooke. But neither name was popular in the early 20^th century. Then, I thought it’s the cigarette, marketed to women in the late Twenties as a brand “Mild as May.” But given the character was born in 1910 the cigarette brand didn’t yet exist. Finally, the obvious struck me: Malbro is from Utah. But I had to reject that too because it lacks the final /ee/ sound and is not double-barreled as in Jersey Jo or Pixley Wren. So I’m at a loss.

The Rich Are Always with Us
1932 / 1:11
Tagline: “A daring story of reckless love and bankrupt morals”

I’d seen Ruth Chatterton only in the superb Dodsworth with Walter Huston, so I was curious to revisit her in The Rich Are Always with Us (1932), a glossy soap opera about wealthy New Yorkers who, lacking money worries, invent emotional ones.

Carolyn (Chatterton) is a devoted wife and one of the richest women in the city. After ten childless years of marriage, she still loves her husband Greg (John Miljan), a stockbroker diminished by the crash. His insecurity makes Carolyn mother him through his professional woes. Yet Greg, despite relying on her, imagines he loves Alyson (Adrienne Dore), a younger woman whose immaturity and jealousy suggest she enjoys the idea of hurting Carolyn. Everyone admires Carolyn as “a real lady,” a status Alyson covets but knows she’ll never achieve.

Enter Julian (George Brent), a foreign correspondent and novelist who has long loved Carolyn. She flirts lightly but resists him, fearing passion will topple her better angels: “You know perfectly well I can’t think when I’m in your arms.” Her loyalty to Greg keeps her dithering.

For comic relief, there’s 24-year-old Bette Davis as Malbro, a flighty socialite chasing Julian. Carolyn offers wry advice: “Pursue him to the point where he either proposes to you or shoots you. If he shoots you, your troubles are over. If he proposes, they’re just beginning.”

Malbro is an appealing mix of goofy teenage girl and determined adult woman. Nobody can predict if the next thing she says will be from the girl-savage or from the worldly-wise woman. Julian observes the world will be blessed the day Malbro learns to think before she speaks. As the comic relief, she gets the best lines. Here, she is horning in on the extension when Carolyn calls Julian from Paris:

Malbro: Far from loving Julian, I'm beginning to despise him. He's all flabby from not exercising and drinking too much. He's been running around with strange women.
Julian: She's a liar, darling! I've been to two parties in a month.
Malbro: I think he stays at home, smoking opium.
[laughs]
Malbro: He looks it anyhow!

The film plays like an inkblot test. Malbro may seem a sassy delight or a brat; Alyson, either immature or spiteful; Carolyn, either noble or indecisive. Brent is convincing as a patient, grown-up man, avoiding the heaviness typical of male leads of the era. Chatterton shines as a complex woman torn between duty and desire - dignified yet witty, with flashes of vulnerability.

With regard to the script, sometimes yesterday’s sophistication is today’s  puzzle. Could this be a reference to the modernist response to WWI, the loss of complacent certainty in the old pieties? Given Julian was born in 1900, he may have had dark thoughts in the aftermath of Verdun and the Somme ….

Carolyn: “Haven’t you got any morals at all?”
Julian: “Well, they began to ache when I was 16 so I had them pulled out.”

Visually, the film is a feast. The clothes are beautiful as are the cars (one might be an amazing 1933 Auburn 12-165). As for the sets, some drawing rooms look large enough to stable more than a couple of racehorses. It’s a portrait of privilege, but beneath the gloss lurks a question about shifting values in a world still reeling from war and economic collapse.

Stoic Week 2026 #7

Note: This week is Stoic Week 2026, the annual exercise in discovering whether inner peace can survive contact with social media. Enrollment is free, which immediately distinguishes it from most routes to self-improvement. Having lost my teaching outlet when the pandemic throttled the program, I now possess an excess of pedagogical energy. Stoic Week provides a useful release valve. Otherwise, I’ll end up sitting on a boulder in the middle of campus dispensing life advice like a Greek oracle that has seen too many Charlie Chan movies. “Man who read comments section voluntarily enters mosquito swamp.”

If Bad Girl teaches that strength requires vulnerability, Flaming Gold that wisdom requires questioning first impressions, The Sins ofthe Children that serenity requires focus on what is up to you, Parole Girl that character can be rebuilt through habit, and Undertow that happiness requires self-knowledge, then The Fall Guy teaches that adversity itself is seldom the real danger. The real danger is abandoning honesty and sound judgment in an effort to escape adversity. Face bad news immediately. Problems grow larger when procrastination based on fear delays action. 

The Fall Guy (1930): A Stoic Reading

The Fall Guy belongs to that fascinating group of early talkies made when the Depression had settled in to become a harsh daily reality. Jobs vanish, debts multiply, and small lapses in judgment snowball into major problems. From a Stoic perspective, the film is a reminder that the hardship of economic downturns presents serious risks but the genuine danger lies in how we respond to unemployment and money worries.

Johnny Quinlan (Jack Mulhall), a drugstore clerk, loses his job through carelessness and then makes things worse by concealing the truth from his wife, Bertha (Mae Clarke). Like many husbands under pressure, Johnny fears his wife's disappointment, dismay, anger, and worry so much that he chooses avoidance instead. The Stoics regarded this as a classic mistake. Bad news is manageable; it’s not fair to a spouse that they are not told what’s going on.

Desperate for money, Johnny accepts help from bootlegger Nifty Herman. The loan quickly becomes a leash. Everyone warns Johnny to keep his distance, but he convinces himself that necessity excuses poor judgment. Epictetus would have recognized the pattern immediately: one compromise leads to another until a man finds himself carrying burdens he neither understands nor controls. The title is less about bad luck than about the consequences of surrendering one's judgment 

Living with the Quinlans is Bert's brother Danny, played by the terrific Ned Sparks. Danny is unemployed too, but unlike Johnny he has elevated joblessness into something resembling a profession. He spends his days torturing a saxophone with the same miserable tune, creating an accidental soundtrack for Depression life: the same worries repeated endlessly with no improvement in technique.

Like Jason Compson, Sparks is hilarious as a man whose pessimism has ripened into a lifestyle choice. Danny complains about everything, contributes almost nothing, and seems permanently offended that the universe continues to expect effort from him. One begins to suspect that the family's most effective austerity measure would be leaving him on the nearest curb with his saxophone.

Yet the film remains valuable as social history. Bert supports both her irresponsible husband and her impossible brother with a loyalty that borders on sainthood. Meanwhile, despite financial desperation, almost nobody seriously considers the possibility of her seeking work. Economic collapse may shake society, but gender expectations remain remarkably durable.

The picture also captures a moment when Prohibition had lost much of its moral authority. Nobody seems especially troubled that Nifty sells liquor. The concern is practical rather than ethical. Speakeasies attract trouble, federal agents, and occasionally funerals.

As cinema, The Fall Guy is often stiff and unmistakably early-talkie. But its Stoic lesson remains relevant: unemployment, poverty, and misfortune may be beyond our control, yet honesty, judgment, and self-command are not. Johnny's downfall comes less from losing his job than from refusing to face reality directly.

The movie may be modest entertainment, but it preserves a timeless truth. Hard times test character, and avoiding the truth generally creates more suffering than the truth itself. Even when the film creaks, that lesson still lands.