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Reviews4
Tom G.'s rating
This film is classified as Film Noir, but on close examination is a routine 50s gangster movie and a cheap one at that. Joey Sante is a wiseacre, rebellious kid of 11 who runs numbers for the local bookies. Joey's father disapproves of his disrespect and arrogance but his mother convinces him he will someday be a great man. Suddenly the scene changes and while the other characters age slightly (if at all), adolescent Joey is now 41 year old Steve Cochran playing a younger age. The rest of the film focuses on Joe Sante's organized crime career, rising through the ranks to eventually running his own organization. But after breaking with the big boss Paul Moran (Grant Withers in his final role), he suddenly becomes the object of a Senate probe and marks himself for extinction.
Sante's constant companion is Blackie (the affable Robert Strauss whose aging is suggested by hair frosting), first Joe's mentor while a boy, then his immediate superior, then his immediate subordinate and finally his trusted friend who does him in. Strauss had his chance to shore up if not carry the film, but his lackluster role got in the way due in great measure to uninspired direction.
The film assumes an air of self-importance, epic and biographical in concept and presented in Cinemascope, but never rises above a low grade "B" picture in any aspect. While it pretends to be a fascinating study of a hoodlum's life, it plods along like a routine stage drama. The only Noir element is Joe's seemingly conflicted character headed toward a fatalistic end. Joe is represented as a decent sort, supporting his mother (who accepts his largesse and then ultimately disowns him), keeping needy acquaintances on the payroll and even turning down gratuitous trysts with wanton floozies. He never betrays a friend, and kills people only when he absolutely must. We would be persuaded that Joe is really not a bad guy.
Corman's direction shows his simplistic style, but without the sight gags or wacky characters found in "Little Shop of Horrors" or "Bucket of Blood". The plot is forced, the script flat and the same blaring jazz soundtrack later used in "Shop" and "Bucket" is offered for suspense. Completely devoid of imagination, suspense, humor, interesting camera work or real empathy for any of the characters, the story lopes along until its inevitable, predictable conclusion.
Sorry Roger, suspense and schlock are two different concepts. You were in way over your head on this one.
Sante's constant companion is Blackie (the affable Robert Strauss whose aging is suggested by hair frosting), first Joe's mentor while a boy, then his immediate superior, then his immediate subordinate and finally his trusted friend who does him in. Strauss had his chance to shore up if not carry the film, but his lackluster role got in the way due in great measure to uninspired direction.
The film assumes an air of self-importance, epic and biographical in concept and presented in Cinemascope, but never rises above a low grade "B" picture in any aspect. While it pretends to be a fascinating study of a hoodlum's life, it plods along like a routine stage drama. The only Noir element is Joe's seemingly conflicted character headed toward a fatalistic end. Joe is represented as a decent sort, supporting his mother (who accepts his largesse and then ultimately disowns him), keeping needy acquaintances on the payroll and even turning down gratuitous trysts with wanton floozies. He never betrays a friend, and kills people only when he absolutely must. We would be persuaded that Joe is really not a bad guy.
Corman's direction shows his simplistic style, but without the sight gags or wacky characters found in "Little Shop of Horrors" or "Bucket of Blood". The plot is forced, the script flat and the same blaring jazz soundtrack later used in "Shop" and "Bucket" is offered for suspense. Completely devoid of imagination, suspense, humor, interesting camera work or real empathy for any of the characters, the story lopes along until its inevitable, predictable conclusion.
Sorry Roger, suspense and schlock are two different concepts. You were in way over your head on this one.
Like the classic KING KONG, MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM is set in 1933 New York City, stars Fay Wray, has a monster (of sorts) and is produced by a major studio. But there the similarity ends; WAX MUSEUM is an opportunity lost and a potential masterpiece never realized.
WAX MUSEUM opens with thunder and lightening, and the clip-clop of horses in the street late on a rainy night. Alone with his exhibits in his wax museum, Ivan Igor (Lionel Atwill) is confronted by his larcenous partner Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell). Worth reminds Igor of their financial insolvency caused by Igor's refusal to create and display sensational wax exhibits, then suggests a way to solve their financial dilemma.
Atwill is perfectly cast as Igor the demented sculptor. Fay Wray, sensuous as ever, plays the vulnerable Charlotte Duncan in a seemingly bit part, the ingenue upon whom Igor seeks to bestow the benefits of immortality in wax. The scene where Atwill attempts to console the horrified Wray that she will remain beautiful forever as a recreated wax statue of Marie Antoinette is unforgettable.
The plot develops adequately and reaches a satisfactory conclusion, ably accented by the musical score. The film has the familiar ambience of the 30s with abrupt entrances into plot and character situations and brash, sappy dialogue. But one incidental role undermines all else: that of Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), a newspaper reporter whose assignment is investigating the strange activities at the wax museum, including corpses missing from the morgue. Farrell's role competes for screen time with the principal leads, yet serves little purpose other than so-called comic relief. The character's inane contrivances could be tolerated, but Farrell's dialogue is the problem, a relentless tirade of stupid slang words and metaphors bellowed in a raspy squeaking voice. This constant wisecracking quickly becomes irritating and intrusive, obviously inserted for no other purpose than to distract from the main plot and diminish the film's mood and effect. Farrell's overscripted character should have been deleted or composited into Wray's Charlotte Duncan, with Wray playing the role as a serious ingenue as was done after a fashion in its remake, HOUSE OF WAX. It would have at least saved the film.
The real "mystery" of WAX MUSEUM is the faulty script when everything else was right for this production: impressive two-strip technicolor, Atwill and Wray as leads and talented director Michael Curtiz (Yankee Doodle Dandy, Casablanca) at the helm. Warners seemingly intended to make a truly fascinating and frightening film, yet sabotaged its own efforts by adding needless distractions and contrivances for almost half the picture.
In conclusion, I would rate the film as worth watching now that its biggest flaw is identified, especially for Atwill's performance along with the other positive aspects of the picture. After watching it, you will know why Warners put it on the remake list right away.
WAX MUSEUM opens with thunder and lightening, and the clip-clop of horses in the street late on a rainy night. Alone with his exhibits in his wax museum, Ivan Igor (Lionel Atwill) is confronted by his larcenous partner Joe Worth (Edwin Maxwell). Worth reminds Igor of their financial insolvency caused by Igor's refusal to create and display sensational wax exhibits, then suggests a way to solve their financial dilemma.
Atwill is perfectly cast as Igor the demented sculptor. Fay Wray, sensuous as ever, plays the vulnerable Charlotte Duncan in a seemingly bit part, the ingenue upon whom Igor seeks to bestow the benefits of immortality in wax. The scene where Atwill attempts to console the horrified Wray that she will remain beautiful forever as a recreated wax statue of Marie Antoinette is unforgettable.
The plot develops adequately and reaches a satisfactory conclusion, ably accented by the musical score. The film has the familiar ambience of the 30s with abrupt entrances into plot and character situations and brash, sappy dialogue. But one incidental role undermines all else: that of Florence Dempsey (Glenda Farrell), a newspaper reporter whose assignment is investigating the strange activities at the wax museum, including corpses missing from the morgue. Farrell's role competes for screen time with the principal leads, yet serves little purpose other than so-called comic relief. The character's inane contrivances could be tolerated, but Farrell's dialogue is the problem, a relentless tirade of stupid slang words and metaphors bellowed in a raspy squeaking voice. This constant wisecracking quickly becomes irritating and intrusive, obviously inserted for no other purpose than to distract from the main plot and diminish the film's mood and effect. Farrell's overscripted character should have been deleted or composited into Wray's Charlotte Duncan, with Wray playing the role as a serious ingenue as was done after a fashion in its remake, HOUSE OF WAX. It would have at least saved the film.
The real "mystery" of WAX MUSEUM is the faulty script when everything else was right for this production: impressive two-strip technicolor, Atwill and Wray as leads and talented director Michael Curtiz (Yankee Doodle Dandy, Casablanca) at the helm. Warners seemingly intended to make a truly fascinating and frightening film, yet sabotaged its own efforts by adding needless distractions and contrivances for almost half the picture.
In conclusion, I would rate the film as worth watching now that its biggest flaw is identified, especially for Atwill's performance along with the other positive aspects of the picture. After watching it, you will know why Warners put it on the remake list right away.