Dick Powell, Some Enchanted Evenings

What I love most about Classic films is that the Hays Code, while certainly restrictive, resulted in some fantastically subtle dialogue and storytelling. The limitations on conduct forced the writers/crew to be creative in a way they never would nowadays. The constricted nature of what they could say and show, made it so if the writers wanted to discuss something or have it portrayed on screen, it had to be in a clever way, within a subtext. Thats what has me baffled about the dialogue in alot of these films, it feels so ahead of its time, even nowadays, its shocking. How could Golddiggers of 1933, His Girl Friday, or The Philadelphia Story, among many others have such brilliant dialogue back then that it sort of puts alot of modern day movies to shame. There is something especially mentally delicious about how innuendo is employed in Classic Films. There's more attention required of the audience to grasp the subtext, and isn't it nice to have a subtext? The black and white silvery cinematography could be indescribably beautiful, the larger than life beautiful actresses. 

The dialogue and writing in these films was often vibrant, especially considering some of these films are nearly 100 years old. In fact, the writing and banter on Bringing Up Baby, or The Philadelphia Story, or His Girl Friday, doesnt feel dated at all and is superior than 90 percent of screenwriting today. I love the feeling and vibe these movies create. The fashions, elegant men wearing hats and suits, those epic orchestral soundtracks. Sometimes they make one wish to live inside these films. Obviously there were chaotic and scary situations too, WWII and the Great Depression being the obvious examples, but times seemed simpler, easier in some aspects. I love not seeing cell phones or the internet on screen, for example. Also, the concept of "movie as an event" is exciting. Even with today's huge Marvel movies, or Netflix exclusives, there is something about these classic films; they were huge major events. When I am watching a classic film, I am really focused whilst it unfolds its plot, I find myself captivated by the sheer magic that these old Hollywood gems possessed. It was as if they had a unique ability to whisk you away from the ordinary and immerse you in something truly extraordinary. I couldn't help but be reminded of a bygone era when movie actors exuded elegance and sophistication, leaving an indelible mark on the art of filmmaking.

There was an inherent class and authenticity in those films that seems to have become increasingly rare in today's Hollywood industry. They made pure cinema, crafted for the sheer joy of storytelling and the sheer love of the characters. It was a time when movies were created for art's sake, mostly without any ulterior motives or hidden agendas. I think a lot of the "magic" with 30s, 40s and 50s Hollywood has to do with the fact that a lot of the actors of that era were on stage before they went to film. They knew how to emote loudly with their entire body language. Camera shots were often wider and there was more of a focus on close-ups. Through one of the miraculous accidents of history, the musical film was born exactly when it was most needed. The United States’ financial boom of the 1920’s created an explosion of technological innovation within the film industry and an orgy of reckless stock speculation on Wall Street. By the end of the decade, both trends reached their logical endpoint. Synchronized sound film was perfected and became an industry standard, while the country’s financial system crashed violently, leaving millions of americans in dire straits. One could reasonably have suspected that with fiscal calamity ravaging the country, non-essential expenses like movie tickets would be the first items cut from family budgets - but Hollywood’s business boomed during the Great Depression years. 

America needed its spirits lifted, and movies were the most effective way to escape the daily doldrums. No type of film gave the viewer more bang-for-the-buck than the musical genere. For the price of a single ticket you’d get comedy, drama, lavish production numbers, and catchy tunes that you’d be humming as you left the theater. It was a sure-fire cure for the blues. I'm reminded of the good lesson taught to us by Preston Sturges at the end of Sullivan's Travels, where he shows us laughter and glitz is the best medicine to combat depression and sadness. In The Pirate, Judy Garland’s Manuela, who craves romance and adventure, insists, “Underneath this prim exterior, there are depths of emotion, romantic longings.” It’s a statement that could be made by virtually any character in any musical. These are hardly frivolous matters. The musical is for anyone who has ever longed for something or someone—that is to say, everyone. What is life without fantasy? To be firmly grounded, one must occasionally walk on air. 

Gold Diggers of 1933 is conspicuously aware of the time in which it was being made. It opens with a jaunty, dazzling production of “We’re In The Money” which lands on a harsh note of irony. As the girls finish singing this hymn to carefree success, the police march into the theater to repossess the troupe’s stage equipment on behalf of creditors. The dazzling illusions of showbiz wither under the unforgiving circumstances, and our three protagonists - Carol (Joan Blondell), Trixie (Aline MacMahon) and Polly (Ruby Keeler) - suddenly find themselves unemployed. “It’s the depression, dearie,” Ginger Rogers’ Fay caustically reminds us. What Gold Diggers of 1933 serves up afterward was just what audience’s ordered, a reversal of their fortunes - we get to follow these three tough, wise-crackin’ gals as they stick it to snobby rich guys and eventually reach points of contentment somewhere on the broad spectrum between love and financial security. Mervyn LeRoy directs the dialogue scenes with the same caustic brio that he brought to his gangster films (Little Caesar, Five Star Final), giving the film’s comedy a sardonic (and often risqué) edge that might come as a shock to modern audiences more accustomed to the relatively wholesome attitudes that characterized the Hollywood musical after the enforcement of the Hays Code.

But what really sets Gold Diggers of 1933 apart are the dazzling, audacious production numbers of Bubsy Berkeley. Unlike most musical directors, Berkeley was uninterested in traditional dance and choreography, instead using his cast performers to create elaborate geometric designs. Critic Dave Kehr who counts Berkeley “among America's first and greatest abstract filmmakers,” writes: "By the time of Gold Diggers of 1933, Mr. Berkeley had dissolved the spatial confines of the stage and was mounting his extravaganzas within the big, black box of a gigantic Warner Brothers soundstage, where Euclidean notions of space dissolved in a fantasy world without visible borders and only occasional concessions to Renaissance perspective." 

There are moments in every Berkeley number where the director seems to have taken off completely for deep space: images so abstract that it is difficult to identify the human figures that compose them at their base. Indeed, Berkeley is America’s answer to Eisenstein - the master of montage for the masses. But his ideology is pure Hollywood: glamour, spectacle, scale, romance and fun. And though Berkeley’s films didn’t share the self-conscious Socialist desire to uplift an impoverished proletariat, that’s exactly what they wound up doing. Gold Diggers of 1933 was made near the end of the Pre-Code era, when censorship was beginning to hold sway. Warner prepared for censorship boards by preparing two versions of the film - the normal one and one that was considerably “toned down” for more conservative states. Polly (the good girl) and Dick Powell (the shy composer/crooner) come alive in the fabulous  number "Pettin' in the Park". This number is maybe the peak of the whole movie. It makes us enjoy the titillating yet innocent nature of Polly and Brad's relationship—how the montage seems to tout the winking to its audience. And of course, it all ends with the somber "Remember my Forgotten Man" number, which is in no doubt referencing Franklin Roosevelt's 1932 radio speech. In 2003, Gold Diggers of 1933  was selected for the National Film Registry. —MGM’s Stairway to Paradise (2019) by Michael Koresky

"His death at fifty-eight was a tremendous loss to the industry, both as a creator and as a backbone," former director Busby Berkeley lamented when Dick Powell passed away. The loss shook June Allyson deeply, and she descended into a period of self destruction. Four Star Productions was weakened without Powell's business sense. It is tantalizing to wonder what Powell would have done with more time, but his boundless energy and generosity left us with a unique legacy to remember him by. It was typical for movie stars in the 1930s to be sent on promotional tours around the country after a film was finished. After 42nd Street, Dick Powell and others of the main cast from the film were sent to theaters showing the film. They would perform little skits and introduce the film, and then take their bows afterward. 

For 42nd Street, there was an entire 7-car train that went to 100 cities. Dick Powell was part of the many celebrities on the train. He was eager to please and he put a lot of energy into his performances at each stop, but such constant travel was draining. He jumped quickly into another film, to his detriment. Powell landed in the hospital with severe pneumonia and spent most of the money he had made touring on hospital bills. The pneumonia forced him to recover longer than the studio wanted. They recast his role in Footlight Parade with Stanley Smith, a young actor who has appeared in a few films, including the starring role in Love Among the Millionaires with Clara Bow. But the studio believed that the fans would prefer to see Dick Powell with Ruby Keeler, so when he became well, they replaced Stanley with Dick. 

Dick Powell plays “Billy Lawler” in 42nd Street, who describes himself as “one of Broadway’s better juveniles”. The cherubic Powell is immensely likable as “Billy” and his cheerful enthusiasm is infectious, even when crooning a ditty. As mentioned before, his chemistry with Keeler sparkles with a genuine affection, giving him (and her) a kind of dreamy quality. His solid performance made him a star of lighthearted musical comedies. Many people burst out into laughter at the end of the number when Powell and Keeler pull down a curtain marked ‘Asbestos’. Asbestos nowadays is pretty much solely associated with killing people, but back in the day it was used in, yes, stage curtains in case a fire got out of control. And, as another source noted, it also indicates that whatever is going on behind the curtain between the two stars must be pretty hot. “I Only Have Eyes For You” has a handful of my favorite shots in all of cinema. The many reveals of Ruby Keeler are breathtaking, and the way the film repeats and rearranges is nothing less than visual poetry. Keeler, who must have been a little weirded out seeing the final product, is nonetheless absolutely glowing throughout. Her character loves the adoration, and it sells the love affair along with all of the romantic lyrics tossed to her by Powell. 

In Footlight Parade, Dick Powell says to his new darling (Ruby Keeler) on their upcoming tour, “We’ll make love in 40 cities!" Footlight Parade is one of the greats of the Pre-Code era, and an essential work for anyone who loves cinema. Though it was 42nd Street the film that really cemented Dick Powell's fame. Not only was it a highly successful movie, it featured Ruby Keeler again and sparked the beginning of a long film partnership with her. We first see Dick Powell in his underwear, but he is immediately shown to be non-threatening and very sweet. Throughout the film, he goes out of his way to help the girl he loves, but he is no pushover. There is no way he will let Edward Nugent get a shot at Ruby. Powell is a very confident and adept actor, even at this early stage in his career. In spite of this, it is his singing that is most impressive. He appears in "Young and Healthy" with the beautiful Toby Wing, attempting to woo her. Here we see his trademark outstretched arms and winning smile, a combination that would make him irresistible in musicals. According to Kevin Killian: "If they remade this film today they might dress Dick Powell up differently in the scene in which Peggy stumbles into Billy's dressing room, catching him in his underwear; but they couldn't cast a cuter guy or get a fresher, more vibrant sexual vibe. He's fantastic in the film, and he gives Ruby Keeler sex, just as she gives him back her adoration, a mirror of ours." Source: pre-code.com

Marion Davies was a famous mistress to a wealthy newspaper tycoon named William Randolph Hearst. Although her devotion to Hearst was strong, she was not above liaisons with actors, particularly co-stars. When Powell and Davies appeared in Page Miss Glory together, they hit it off, and soon Dick was making frequent late night phone calls to Marion's private number. At the same time, he was often seen having lunch with Joan Blondell in the studio commissary. Dick Powell was a logical man, and although he cared deeply for Marion, the relationship with Joan seemed more realistic. Joan was in the process of divorcing her first husband, whereas Marion had no intention of breaking off her relationship with Hearst. Powell made smart investments throughout his career, dabbling in real estate, and he spent some of his profits on his first boat. He liked to take his family out on the sea. However, large purchases were rare, and with his musical career waning, he knew how important it was that he provide for his family, so he accepted a few films that he otherwise wouldn't have. When Joan Blondell began seeing impresario Mike Todd, Powell knew that it wouldn't be long until they signed divorce papers. In the meantime, he began a relationship with upcoming actress June Allyson. 

June had been smitten with Dick's on-screen image for years, and he loved acting as her protector. He gave her advice on her career and took her out for dancing. Powell began making a string of tough-guy pictures for RKO while balancing his real estate hobby, his relationship with his children, and keeping a watchful eye on June's blooming career. June was told she could never have children due to a childhood accident, so the couple decided to adopt a baby. Pamela Powell was brought home in 1948. Two years later, the Powells planned to adopt a boy companion for Pamela, but then June was shocked to learn that she was pregnant. Richard Jr. was born on Christmas Day 1950. June remembered how ecstatically happy her husband was, "I can't believe it. I'm forty years old and my wife has given me a son." "Richard seldom used a real name," June said. "Pammy answered to My Special Girl or Special Girl; Ricky was plain Speedy." 

Mary Martin’s ninth and last picture for Paramount, True to Life (1943), begins with an omniscient narrator intoning, “Someone once said, ‘The movies should be more like life.’ And a wise man answered, ‘Life should be more like the movies.’” True to Life was the first Martin film to include any reference to the anxious reality that America was at war, albeit in a humorous, throwaway subplot. True to Life (1943) is a delightful George Marshall screwball comedy with Dick Powell and Franchot Tone as radio soap opera writers who have hit a dry spell and are facing an angry sponsor who want to cancel the continued adventures of Kitty Farmer. Powell goes out in the rain looking for inspiration and meets Mary Martin in a diner where she mistakes him for a pitiful guy out of work because he left his wallet at home. While not a musical, Martin sings “Mister Pollyanna,” and Powell does likewise for the memorable Johnny Mercer tune “The Old Music Master,” and “There She Was,” a more typical Powell tune. 

There’s never doubting of Powell's attraction to Martin, that's the forte of the film. Powell was one of the few actors who could be smug and vulnerable at the same time. Mary Martin did far too few films, but had real presence on screen (not always true of stage stars). Here she is mindful of Jean Arthur—which is no small compliment—especially in a screwball comedy. Martin had previous co-starred with Bing Crosby in Rhythm on the River (1940), based on a story by Billy Wilder, In the end, Cherry sings their song, “Only Forever,” in a nightclub, and Courtney is compelled to divulge that it was written by his “collaborators.” That lilting melody is offset by Crosby’s “real hep cat” version of the title song and by Martin’s saucy “Ain’t It a Shame about Mame.” The original score was by Johnny Burke (Crosby’s principal Paramount composer), whose “Only Forever” earned an Academy Award nomination. Though Mary Martin received the same-size billing as her costar Bing Crosby, Martin was paid a paltry $20,416. 

Helpfully, her contract stipulated that she could leave the studio every Thursday to attend rehearsals and broadcasts of Dick Powell’s Good News radio program, for which she was earning $1,000 per show. Happy Go Lucky (1943), Martin’s eighth picture, is a Technicolor movie musical in which she plays Marjory Stewart, a Texan “cigarette girl” who poses as a millionaire and heads south in search of a rich man to marry. After the opening calypso number, as Marjory’s boat docks at an unnamed tropical island, she admits to Pete (Dick Powell), a local hustler, that she’s “a phony” who “came down here to find a rich husband.” Pete helps her plot to land his onetime friend, Alfred Monroe (Rudy Vallee). But even as all of their schemes are thwarted, the viewer knows from the outset that Marjory’s going to nab “Alfie,” only to reject him for Pete (Powell) in the end. Martin's chauffeur Ernest Adams, who had previously worked for journalist Adela Rogers St. Johns, recalled Jean Arthur paying a visit backstage after a matinee in San Francisco. "I was standing on the stage, and I see this little woman in very sensible shoes and a little plaid suit. And I see Miss Martin come out of her dressing room, and they ran to each other. They embraced in such a way that even I, still a virgin, knew this was not just two friends saying ‘hello.’ But then, of course, there was a lot of gossip swirling around the company about the two of them." 

Adams also hinted that Martin’s intense film chemistry with Dick Powell was based on real chemistry. Let's not forget that Powell was immersed in a painful process of separation from Joan Blondell in 1943, and Martin was always very friendly towards Powell, who was a very private man in real life. So the odds of an affair between Powell and Martin are a rather likely scenario. Theater critic Albert Goldberg went on to write one of the most definitive descriptions of Mary Martin’s artistry as a performer: “It is hard to define Miss Martin’s magic. Some of it may be because you are not only in love with her but because she is also in love with you—the audience. She takes you to her heart as you take her to yours.” 

In the New York Post, Clive Barnes claimed that “her special charm was an innocence that was never sugary, a voice that never cloyed and a personality that happily combined the indomitable with the vulnerable on a spectrum that made it possible for us all to identify with.” Theater critic Mel Gussow in his front-page obituary of Mary Martin for the New York Times, which appeared on November 5, 1990, wrote: “Her voice was never the strongest instrument. She was not beautiful (though she could be radiant). While Ethel Merman was an entire brass section and Carol Channing was a parade, Miss Martin remained natural and exactingly true to life—and her performance as Peter Pan was poetry." Elia Kazan, who had directed Martin in her first Broadway starring role, in One Touch of Venus (1943), said that she was “full of the love of being loved.” —Some Enchanted Evenings: The Glittering Life and Times of Mary Martin (2016) by David Kaufman