Blonde Crazy (1931)

dir. Roy Del Ruth
writ. Kubec Glasmon & John Bright
feat. James Cagney, Joan Blondell, Louis Calhern, Noel Francis, Ray Milland, Guy Kibbee

This delightful pre-code romp splits Jimmy Cagney between his two common guises of song and dance man and conniving crook, the former yearning to be the latter with a beautifully snide Joan Blondell as his foil. Anne (Blondell) outmaneuvers Bert's (Cagney) initial bellhop advances, steering them into the makings of a con man duo ready to take the show on the road.

Given Anne's unwillingness to be wooed by Bert's clumsy attempts, he grows cagey, no longer seeing her as a viable object of affection, despite their playful, loving relationship. This sets into motion an unusual love story amidst the comedic set pieces, their relationship waffling between romance, cameraderie, and a mother-son dynamic. The film even seems to sincerely question if the relationship can work at all, nearing a perfect tragic peak with Bert reluctantly accepting that the two just won't survive as a couple. And though the picture steers toward a more acceptable Hollywood ending, the filmmakers deserve credit for even introducing such potential unsolvable conflict.

High Sierra (1951)

dir. Raoul Walsh
writ. John Huston and W.R. Burnett from Burnett's novel
feat. Humphrey Bogart, Ida Lupino, Alan Curtis, Arthur Kennedy, Joan Leslie, Henry Hull, Henry Travers

In this early major role for Bogart, he plays Roy "Mad Dog" Earle, a tough con freshly cut loose from prison to pull a heist for an associate. Roy laments his criminal life, dreaming of a new start, his eyes on Velma (Leslie), a young crippled girl who he'd love to heal and marry, sharing her supposed innocence for the rest of their days. Naturally, life has other plans for Roy as he awaits the day of the caper, fending off advances by Marie (Lupino), a more sensible match, but representative of the world he plans to leave behind. Though the healing process proceeds remarkably well, Velma doesn't love her savior the way he'd like and is prone to typical youthful diversions such as drinking, dancing, and men closer to he age.

Mad Dog's fantasies slowly crumble as he goes on the lam, eventually forced to live up to his appointed moniker, abandoning even Marie to make a final stand. At its best, High Sierra examines the criminal as a victim of society, unable to truly reform, not given the chance to be a good man again. Roy is strong, smart, and reliable, but also a crook. The idealistic path he attempts shows his own naivete and doomed from the start, while his option for a loyal love in Marie goes unheeded. On paper, Roy makes a powerful tragic figure and Bogart has the role knocked, but something fails to gel in the disparate parts, the chemistry that makes a great film never materializing even with a strong turn by Lupino.

Les enfants teribles (1950)

dir. Jean-Pierre Melville
writ. Jean-Pierre Melville (writer), Jean Cocteau (story and screenplay)
feat. Nicole Stephane, Edouard Dermithe, Renee Cosima, Jacques Bernard, Melvyn Martin

Teenage siblings Elisabeth and Paul (Stephane and Dermithe) turn their rivalry into a combination of a competition for the greatest love and a death duel. Holing up in their room, having abandoned the outside world, they let everything else die as they spar. They invite outsiders to join the game only to mock them or grow jealous when feelings develop that threaten the bond between the two.

Michael (Martin) breezes through as the American dream, foreign and hopeful, yet unsustainable, even if a lingering provider. But the game can't survive the move to the mansion, where the expansive halls destroy the power of proximity, upsetting the spell between Lise and Paul, leaving them room to dream independently. Still, with their dreams too well bound and Paul too weak to break free on his own, the duel can only escalate to its inevitable end.

Melville brings his edge to Cocteau's horror fantasy of paranoid youth. Critics who discount Melville's contribution, giving directing credit to Cocteau, miss the teeth and the cold distance also found in other Melville works. Still, the film does hint at some conflict between creators, the dream world insufficiently transporting, less seductive than one would hope.

Female (1933)

dir. Michael Curtiz, (William Dieterle & William Wellman - uncredited)
writ. Gene Markey and Kathryn Scola, Donald Henderson Clarke (story)
feat. Ruth Chatterton, George Brent, Lois Wilson, Johnny Mack Brown, Ruth Donnelly, Ferdinand Gottschalk

Alison Drake (Chatterton) turns the corporate boys club stereotype on its head in this playful comedic love story. Drake runs her auto factory like a well-oiled machine, bold and brassy in her demands for hard work and subservience. No time for romance, she invites unwitting newbies to her mansion where she lures them to the floor after plying them with vodka, a wonderful set piece repeated with varied results.

The twisted tale of role reversal sails along breezily, guided by Chatterton's easy charisma, smooth in her wooings and stern in her disregard for the ensuing emotional attachment expressed by the conquered men. That is until a real man, Jim Thorne (Brent), comes along. Thorne is impervious to her ploys, his own man, while still drawn to the woman inside. Naturally, Drake is shaken by newfound feelings of true love and bound to change her ways.

Most intriguing is the filmmakers' inability or disinterest in finding a happy medium for the independent woman who admits to a softer center. The sexism of the era takes the lead as Drake casually tosses aside her apparently foolish yearnings for power and leadership, eager to be an obedient wife.

Ex-Lady (1933)

dir. Robert Florey
writ. David Boehm, story by Edith Fitgerald and Robert Riskin
feat. Bette Davis, Gene Raymond, Frank McHugh, Monroe Owsley, Claire Dodd

Even a young and lovely Bette Davis can't charm her way through this chaotic and indecisive story about young lovers attempting to defy convention. Helen (Davis) wants no part in marriage, happy to sneak around behind the backs of friends and parents, hopping into bed with Don (Raymond) at her convenience and without infringement upon her freedom and pursuits as an illustrator and woman of the world.

The film is striking for Helen's unapologetic self-defined morals and the frank conversation about the limitations a relationship places upon the individual's dreams. I struggle to think of another film that plainly explores both true love and the sacrifice one makes in sharing time and ambitions. Unfortunately, the filmmakers haven't settled on a point or conclusion to these meandering philosophies, nor do they comfortably accept the chaos and lack of a clear answer in such dealings, leaving the film messy and arguably pointless.

Mills of the Gods (1934)

dir. Roy William Neill
writ. Garrett Fort (screenplay), Melville Baker & John S. Kirkland (story)
feat. May Robson, Fay Wray, Victor Jory, Raymond Walburn, James Blakely, Josephine Whittell

Mary Hastings (Robson) is the tough as nails aging mill president who simply won't let the workers go hungry. Alas, she doesn't control the family fortune shared by her layabout relatives. The family doesn't give a damn until Jean (Wray) falls for the workers' organizer Jim Devlin (Jory). What could pass for a simple depression-era everyman picture is buoyed by a spark struck between Wray and Jory while they hole up in the mountain cabin. Wray is radiant and enamored, plausibly falling for Jory as she discovers more of the man beneath the tough guy exterior. Somewhat surprisingly, class divisions are retained as the lovers dream of a future that they know won't work, thus avoiding a love conquers all conclusion amidst the other predictable moments.

Scarface (1932)

dir. Howard Hawks
writ. Ben Hecht (screenplay), Armitage Trail (novel)
feat. Paul Muni, Ann Dvorak, Karen Morley, Osgood Perkins, C. Henry Gordon, George Raft

Hawks toys with the gangster rise to power story with Scarface, working out his style that will show more clearly in later works. Muni rides the line between big dumb ape and slick streetwise hood, more nimble than he might seem in moments while Dvorak eventually aligns as his tragic pairing, similarly taking all she can get without caring for those around her, as though simply for the sake of consumption. Though the film may officially decry the acts of such gangsters, it's easy to surmise a hint of sympathy for the plight of the depression-era immigrant.

Note Hawks' use of quiet when Guino (Raft) flips his coin, a better source of suspense than any number of loaded machine guns.

The Living Wake (2007)

dir. Sol Tryon
writ. Peter Kline & Mike O'Connell
feat. Mike O'Connell, Jesse Eisenberg

The Living Wake, an unreleased comedy, offers a relentless ride hosted by O'Connell as K. Roth Binew, a deceptively improper snob living the last day of his life to the fullest. Binew romps through town (and the gorgeous Maine autumn scenery), certain of his fate (a rare and precise disease to take him) and his final acts, while Mills (Eisenberg), his assistant and pedi-cab chauffeur manages the list and serves alternatively as comic partner and relief. The film cleverly zips through the backstory and leaps into the big day, revealing Binew's character gradually, salaciously transforming him from apparent aristocrat to an author, drunk, crackpot, and talented showman.

While Eisenberg's performance routinely smacks too much of an unnecessary successor to a standard Michael Cera role, it is O'Connell's Binew that grabs the attention and refuses to let up, even when dipping into the forced territory common to works where the lead actor is also the writer. Though the frequent and hearty laughs may falter, the film retains a gripping pace through sheer engagement, racing toward new twists. And as in the best comedies, these turns often surprise and elate, occasionally taking flight.