I'm plowing through a boxed set of Fox's Charlie Chan movies with Warner Oland and maybe that's a mistake. Charlie Chan movies like banana splits. Best to have only once in while.
Charlie Chan is supposed to be investigating some bank fraud and, inevitably, a couple of murders in Paris. Aside from some stock footage of the Champs and mostly French names you wouldn't know it was Paris. Of course I knew it wasn't Paris immediately. In a café, there is a close up of a man putting out his cigar in an ash tray -- and the ash tray doesn't say Cinzano.
In this same café, I think, we get to see what the French call an Apache dance. Some low-life dancer with a Gaulois hanging on his lip gets to throw around a woman like a tiny blond doll. He flings her away. Kicks her a little. Lights a match by scratching it on her shoe. Yet she comes crawling back every time and clings to his leg. This is the way it should be, the way nature intended, with the man as master. It was certainly that way in my house, and a most harmonious arrangement it was. I made all the decisions. I decided to carry out every order my wife gave me. I even made a firm decision to have her kick me around once in a while after I found I'd gotten to like it.
Okay, that's a little off the track but, really, what is there to say about this movie? Well, it introduces Enumerated Son Number One, Keye Luke. And then, umm, yes, the final scene takes place in a spooky Paris sewer where improbable bullfrogs congregate.
Eric Rhodes is in this one. He's the dignified paid correspondent in Fred and Ginger's first starring feature, "The Gay Divorcée," where he's memorable as a not-too-bright Italian -- "Chance is the fool's word for Fate." Or, "Your wife is safe with Tonetti. He prefers spaghetti." Curious to see him lapse into sneering villainy here.
It occurred to me that the many fans of Charlie Chan must really love his character and, especially, his aphorisms because, aside from that, there really isn't much substance to the movies. Take away Charlie and Number One Son and what you have is an ordinary B feature with inexpensive sets and stock studio players. Instead of Charlie, you could thrust Boston Blackie into the lead, or the Falcon, or Bulldog Drummond, or Mister Wong, or Mister Moto, or the Green Hornet, or one of the dozens of other B-level detectives that enthralled the kids on Saturday afternoons.
Charlie Chan is supposed to be investigating some bank fraud and, inevitably, a couple of murders in Paris. Aside from some stock footage of the Champs and mostly French names you wouldn't know it was Paris. Of course I knew it wasn't Paris immediately. In a café, there is a close up of a man putting out his cigar in an ash tray -- and the ash tray doesn't say Cinzano.
In this same café, I think, we get to see what the French call an Apache dance. Some low-life dancer with a Gaulois hanging on his lip gets to throw around a woman like a tiny blond doll. He flings her away. Kicks her a little. Lights a match by scratching it on her shoe. Yet she comes crawling back every time and clings to his leg. This is the way it should be, the way nature intended, with the man as master. It was certainly that way in my house, and a most harmonious arrangement it was. I made all the decisions. I decided to carry out every order my wife gave me. I even made a firm decision to have her kick me around once in a while after I found I'd gotten to like it.
Okay, that's a little off the track but, really, what is there to say about this movie? Well, it introduces Enumerated Son Number One, Keye Luke. And then, umm, yes, the final scene takes place in a spooky Paris sewer where improbable bullfrogs congregate.
Eric Rhodes is in this one. He's the dignified paid correspondent in Fred and Ginger's first starring feature, "The Gay Divorcée," where he's memorable as a not-too-bright Italian -- "Chance is the fool's word for Fate." Or, "Your wife is safe with Tonetti. He prefers spaghetti." Curious to see him lapse into sneering villainy here.
It occurred to me that the many fans of Charlie Chan must really love his character and, especially, his aphorisms because, aside from that, there really isn't much substance to the movies. Take away Charlie and Number One Son and what you have is an ordinary B feature with inexpensive sets and stock studio players. Instead of Charlie, you could thrust Boston Blackie into the lead, or the Falcon, or Bulldog Drummond, or Mister Wong, or Mister Moto, or the Green Hornet, or one of the dozens of other B-level detectives that enthralled the kids on Saturday afternoons.