RBarr

None of us should pretend that THE TRESPASSER isn't now, 82 years after its time, incredibly creaky. It is. But it's also, for a 1929 talkie, darned well made, with any number of clever cinematic touches and, unlike most 1929 dramas, a well-done musical score. Just contrast it with the other big 1929 woman's picture, the arid and primitive MADAME X, made a few months earlier. Obviously a number of modern viewers won't make the necessary allowances, as some of the other reviews here show. It isn't always easy to view an early talkie sympathetically, especially when The Marx Bros. aren't involved. But if TRESPASSER is trite in many ways, and relies on at least one outlandish coincidence, it should be seen, still, as a phenomenally astute way to introduce one of the biggest silent stars to sound film. It's fascinating to watch Swanson feeling her way into the talkies. Sometimes she's perfectly naturalistic, other times she declaims like an old-school stage star, and sometimes her silent-movie roots show very clearly with some too- grand gestures. In her best sound film performances, MUSIC IN THE AIR and, of course, SUNSET BOULEVARD, she used aspects of the old over-the- top silent style to great effect; here, not playing a grandiose diva, she can seem more self-conscious about the whole thing. But, more than anything else, she's an first-rate trouper, working hard to give an adoring public every bit of its money's worth. And she obviously worked very well with director/writer Edmund Goulding, who she helped (and also with Laura Hope Crews) to put together this autobiographically-tinged soap opera. (Gloria as the mistress of a tycoon? See the very first frames of the credits : "Joseph P. Kennedy Presents...") And though her singing isn't necessarily presented in a subtle way, it's terrific. Audiences in 1929 were bowled over to find out that she could sing as well (or even better) than she could talk, and it's easy to see why. Note, too, that she clears her throat before starting "Love, Your Spell is Everywhere," proving that she was doing it live on the set. Her performance of Toselli's Serenade is lovely too, especially the way Goulding has her singing off camera before entering, still singing, in a drop-dead gown. It's just too bad that both performances are somewhat truncated, unlike the commercial recordings she made of them. We shouldn't expect THE TRESPASSER to be seen, today, as anything other than a museum piece. Too many of its dramatics are too unsubtle or rudimentary for it to work without some necessary caveats. But as an antique, and a small, authentic piece of film (and political!) history, it's extremely engaging, as crafted by an intelligent and resourceful director for a still-brilliant, one-of-a-kind star.

WWL in New Orleans used to run the sprockets off this thing when I was a kid, and I always made sure to tune in. It seemed, to my naive and untrained eyes, clever and witty and glamorous--Lubitsch, even, for the Eisenhower Age. What can I say--I grew up in the swamps.

So cut to more than 30 years later and I finally see "Paris Model" once again. The shock starts with the credits: Marilyn Maxwell, at best a "B"-level actress, is billed over Paulette Goddard, who'd headlined some very big movies not that many years earlier. Poor Paulette even is called upon to refer to Maxwell in one scene--and, really, who'd go to a store looking for a "Marilyn Maxwell-type dress"? (I'm guessing that Maxwell, or perhaps a wealthy associate of hers, had some money in the production.) The shock continues as the credits continue, superimposed as they are over a somewhat seedy-looking blonde model. Clearly, this is going to be a really cheap film, and the name of Albert Zugsmith as producer verifies that quite explicitly. So does the screen credit that informs us that the apparently haute-couture gown of the title was the creation of "Junior Sophisticates, New York." (A couple of the other fashions in the show look Simplicity tacky.)

As another reviewer has noted, it's a "Tales of Manhattan"-type yarn showing the progress of an evening gown called Nude at Midnight from Paris original to thrift-store knockoff. From Paris to New York to the Midwest to L.A. it goes, but clearly we've never left the sound stage. The sets are small and rather cramped, and scenes supposedly set in large spaces, like Romanoff's restaurant, take place only in small corners that can only hold a few people. While the pace is adequate (director Green had been responsible for some big films, back in the day), the dialog tries for wit without getting very far, and some good actors are seen at, let's be kind here, less than optimal advantage. Eva Gabor, in the first segment, comes off best--she can do "coquettish" in her sleep and seems to be enjoying herself. The once-mighty Goddard tries to sparkle, but the photography does her no favors at all. Maxwell is generic, as she usually was, and Barbara Lawrence is adequate. The supporting actors are a surprisingly sturdy lot: Tom Conway (looking disinterested), Leif Ericson, Cecil Kellaway, a frail-looking Florence Bates in her final role, perennial male ingénue Robert Hutton, and even El Brendel as Lawrence's yumpin-yiminy dad. None of them get opportunities anywhere near their best roles, but at least they're there. So "Paris Model" can't be recommended to a casual viewer looking for wit and sparkle, but for movie buffs it offers a good deal of interest--even when much of that interest involves tut-tutting over how far into B-movie land the once-mighty have fallen.

Why Girls Leave Home does, in fact, exist. It isn't shown much, but it is, assuredly, not lost. I know of (and have seen) a 16mm print of it, currently in the hands of a private collector in Pennsylvania. The print was made shortly after the film's theatrical release, probably for the rental market. Quite likely there are others around as well, and it may also have turned up on early television. As far as the quality of the film itself: It's a tough, pretty well-paced little movie, with above-average production values for this studio. Livingston and Evans's Oscar-nominated song is very entertaining and, not surprisingly, the cast is filled with pros. Pamela Blake is more than adequate (if a shade mature) as the innocent heroine, Virginia Brissac (who played mother roles in, seemingly, thousands of movies) gets one of her biggest parts here, and Sheldon Leonard, Elisha Cook and, especially, Lola Lane are better than good. (Lane has a great scenery-chewing moment in the homestretch.) Too bad that it's so little-seen today, because it's definitely one of the best PRC efforts.