The enforcement of the Hollywood production code in 1934 was abrupt, and for many in-production movies it meant hasty rewrites and reshoots. Belle of the Nineties, Mae West's follow-up to the phenomenally successful (not to mention outrageously code-flaunting) I'm No Angel and She Done Him Wrong, was just such a victim of the post-code cull.
Sources vary regarding this picture, but most agree it had to be adapted quite extensively to fit the more stringent regulations. The story is typical Mae West (she wrote her own material) but the jokes are a little lukewarm, suggestive of nothing more than a nice cuddle and the prospect of marriage. It's odd though because there is as always suggestion of much more in West's body language. Her opening scene is as good an example as any. A musical number, but West doesn't sing or dance; she merely flicks her eyes and sashays her hips as a number of backdrops appear behind her, a performance existing solely to convey her sexual allure.
As well as toning down the dialogue, the story seems to have been truncated, possibly to save time after the rewrites. A large chunk of plot is skimmed over with a few newspaper headlines. When West's character arrives in New Orleans she flirts with a young man who picks up her glove, and it looks as if he is going to become an important character, but he doesn't. The director is slapstick master Leo McCarey, who seems to be using the opportunity to fine-tune his cinematic technique, handling movement on different levels and keeping the camera chugging smoothly around. His biggest contribution is probably to show West's musical numbers from the point-of-view of a face in the crowd, with the camera often at her feet or peeping out between other silhouettes. All in all though it seems a little plodding for a McCarey job, and one wonders if the hassle of reshoots had drained his enthusiasm for the project somewhat.
Belle of the Nineties is perhaps the weakest of all the Mae West pictures, because it is like some strange hybrid. By leaving in West's promiscuous character and sassy mannerisms but taking out all the witty smut, Paramount has left us with something far more disturbing and questionable than the easygoing innuendo of her previous efforts. Things like the oddness of West's walk start to stand out as verging on ridiculous. Of course, the choice of leading man doesn't help either. Roger Pryor's childish grin as he gazes appreciatively at the blonde beauty is decidedly creepy in itself. A few years later, with Klondike Annie, West would work out a suitable post-code persona for herself, which without her trademark sexuality was mediocre though certainly watchable. But Belle of the Nineties, lacking the sex but having the set-up, is awkwardly bad.
