Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Where Were You in '52? ~ "A Negro and an Ofay" by Danny Gardner

The obligatory PSA. This discussion contains explicit racial language and discussions of race that the faint of heart may find disturbing. You are welcome to wait in the lounge. No harm. No foul.

Good books often find you when you need them. Last week I was thinking a lot about my dad on what would have been his 106th birthday. In 1952, the setting of Danny Gardner's A Negro and an Ofay, dad would have been 41. Had his family stayed in the northern Indiana place of his birth, my old man would have likely worked on the lines at one of the steel or auto plants or drove a bulldozer for the post-war construction boom. He also would have been one of the men swinging pool cues in the bowling alley Elliot and Frank pulled Chauncey out of.

My dad was an old school racist. The kind who painfully separated good coloreds (which he pronounced kollards with a sneer he thought was hilarious) from bad niggers and thought he was instructing me in the way of things. When I was about 10, the old man ran his shopping cart over the foot of a black man who had the audacity to be shopping with his white girlfriend. Even as a kid, I knew that was wrong. But like a poison that seeps into a wound, I grew up with my own views shaded by this man. Ferreting out and overcoming personal racism is an active process that has to be pursued every damn day.

No, I didn't pick up this book to prove how progressive I am. I picked it up because I am an online acquaintance of the writer and have read some of his work. I was lucky to get an early look at his story for the anthology Just to Watch Them Die, a book inspired by the music of Johnny Cash. It was lyrical and brilliant. As is this book. I picked it up to be entertained and challenged. I was both.

My thoughts about the old man were just to remind myself and everyone that when you read a book that takes a hard cold look at this country's over-arching shame, the crime on which our fortunes were built, that you are bringing your own baggage along for the trip. That said, "all aboard . . . "

Elliot Caprice is what dad would have called a breed. With a black father who got himself killed in race riots and a white mother who dumped him with "his own kind" as an infant, Elliot Caprice has a foot in both worlds and a foothold in neither. In the parlance, "that boy ain't neither fish nor fowl." After serving valiantly in WWII on an equal footing, he came home to a country that barely tolerated him when he decided to pass and openly scorned him when they discovered he was mixed. With a sense of honor and desire to recapture that feeling of duty done well from the war, he became a Chicago cop.

But nothing with Caprice is easy and things didn't go well. With blood on his hands and a price on his head, he went underground and was going along and getting along until his fondness for big-legged women touched off a bar fight that left him in the notorious St. Louis communal jail cell known as the "meat locker."

Caprice reaches into his past and secures the help of an old friend who is now the first black county sheriff in Illinois. This is where the heart of the story begins and gives rise to some of the stunning language and dialogue that kept me swiping at my Kindle screen long after I should have been asleep.

Enter lawyer, excuse me, attorney Robin. Why do I make that distinction, because:

Lawyers make trouble for their clients. Attorneys make trouble for everyone else. 

I love that line. I can proudly say I've made trouble for everyone else once or twice, like citing the 1946 UN Resolution on Driving in defense of a Mexican man accused of driving without a license.

With Elliot sprung from the slammer, the story takes off into familiar noir mystery territory. Shadowy millionaires who die suspiciously leaving the young wife to battle the family over the inheritance. Corrupt cops. Drugs. Guns. The threat of losing the family farm driving Caprice as he deals with his guilt for abandoning the uncle that raised him. BBQ joints. Dark bars. Jazz clubs. Route 66. And a car named Lucille. All careening toward a satisfying ending that left me wanting book 2. Oh and there had better be a book 2. I'm an attorney and you know what that means.

All interwoven with language that is beautiful in its brutality. Like this exchange from the jail between Caprice and Frank Fuquay:


"What parts would those be?"

"Yazoo County, Miss-sip!"

"Is that so? My daddy was from around that way," Elliot said.

"Yo daddy, huh? No doubt sum' cracker that took the long way home one night."

That was the last slur of his mixed race that Elliot intended to hear. Big Black's buddy was a short-stack, but it was still two against one. Uneven odds were nothing new to him, so he resolved to play it cool.

"Tell you the truth, he was 'bout as inky as you."

"What you say?"

"Yeah, boy. It took a whole lot 'o snowflake to dilute that much buck. You a tall drink of Darkest Africa, Big Black. Whycome you got no white in you at all? Yo granny wasn't pretty enough for the slave foreman?"


Hey, if you want uplifting prose that makes you feel good, read Roots. What's powerful about this ugly exchange is the authenticity. Squaring off over wooden cots on the greasy concrete floor of a dungeon of a jail, these men wouldn't be palavering ringing phrases of racial solidarity. And as someone who married a man who was called a "sawed-off batshit little motherfucker" in fights more than once, it rings true.  

Elliot Caprice rings true. Two feet. No footholds.

One of the underlying themes in the book is the frustrating nature of Caprice. He doesn't want your help. When he is desperate, he'll demand it and he'll take it, but part of him will resent the hell out of it. He'll help you. He doesn't really want to, but he will, as long as it is on his own terms and suits his sense of honor. (Except for white saviors. Fuck them. Including and especially John Creamer.)

However, at the bottom of the cipher that is Caprice was my frustrating desire to yell at a book something I have yelled at an actual human man:


I have a feeling that will be a continuing thread throughout the series. That is going to be the hardest battle he'll fight because it's not one that can be won with hot lead. It means he is admitting that he's worth it.

Years ago in a safety seminar, a man who had been horrifically burned in an accident had one final message to the crews fidgeting in their seats, "If you don't care about your own sorry ass, think about those who do."

When you let someone love you, their love becomes your cross to bear. Your actions affect them, often in ways you can't even imagine. Elliot's not there yet, but he's working on it.

This book is 5-stars all the way. Let it entertain you. Let it make you uncomfortable. Let it make you think. Who knows, as the train pulls into the station, there might be a little less baggage waiting for you.


SIDE NOTE: The word "negro" makes us uncomfortable as fuck. In some ways, it should. It carries almost two centuries of weight. It was used to make an entire class of people the "other." In some ways, it is more incendiary than "nigger." That's because it was often the term used by the supposedly nice people.

However . . . .

When I was working for Legal Aid, one of the things we had to do was collect statistical data about the people who called us for advice. The usual - age, race, marital status, income, etc. I was interviewing an elderly lady and got to the race question.

She hesitated for a second and said, "You put me down as a negro. I was born negro, lived as a negro, and will go home as a negro." I did the math on her age and realized she would have been a young girl during the Tulsa Greenwood massacre. In my book, that lady gets to describe herself however she damn well pleases. Words matter and it's not my job to tell her which ones are right or wrong. I checked the bland politically-neutral box on the interview form and went straight into the problem she was having with her landlord.

I'm not sure what she would have thought of a man like Elliot Caprice with his slick suits, smart mouth, and chip on his shoulder. But I damn well know she would have recognized the world created by Danny Gardner in A Negro and an Ofay.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

The Coop Black Dog Posse - For the Love of a Dog

This morning, Easter Sunday 2017, dawned gray and cool and matched what is in my heart. Yesterday, I had to face a hard truth.

One of my dogs is dying.

Not sick. Not frail. Not failing. Not fading. One of my dogs is dying.

Rocket Man
As of the time I'm writing this, Rocky hasn't eaten in three days and can no longer hold down water. I know about the food because I found where he'd been sick and a special treat I'd given everyone on Thursday was there, undigested. His organs and systems have been shutting down and now there is no disguising or ignoring it. Last night he started having small seizures.

I'm keeping a bowl of water by his head. He laps at it and then it comes back up. That's okay. As long as it gives him some comfort and satisfies his needs.

But it's more than just the outward signs. I can tell he is letting go.

And it's the other dogs. They are shunning him and I now realize that the squabbling I've been seeing for the last week is both their stress at losing one of their pack-mates and them resettling the pack order. A pack that no longer includes Rocky. If this was happening out in the wild, he would have found himself a quiet den and waited it out. No Disney soundtrack with this reality.

The old cliche of "they'll tell you" and "you'll know when" don't always hold true, but if you're willing to listen, the signs are usually there.

I don't know what happened. I don't know if it's a toxin or an infection or just some genetic switch flipped. There won't be heroic measures and attempts to diagnose. It's a holiday and where I live there are no emergency 24-hour facilities. If he hasn't crossed the bridge by tomorrow, I'll do my last duty as leader of this posse. It's my responsibility.

Yesterday I had to look into my options and decide what I could afford. I thought about a resting place in one of my flower beds, but an hour with a shovel told me that between my bad shoulder and the brick hard clay, that wasn't happening. I also hold no affinity for this land and know that I'll be leaving it some day. I'll take his paw prints in clay and on paper and then take him to a cremation service in Kansas City. Somehow, doing that research hurt me more than listening to his labored breathing and sounds of being sick. It made it real.

His spirit will be free. His body will be no more than a worn out suit that he no longer needs.

Because with Rocky, it's his spirit that matters.

Rocky is so busted. 
Rocky, AKA Rocket Man, The Rock, and DROP IT, is a magnificent stubborn loveable lunkhead of a DOG.

He's not a pet. He's not a "companion animal." He's not an accessory or a decorative accent. He is a crazy, goofy, free-spirited beast who still had a bit of the wild in him that never met a corner he didn't like to chew, a vertical surface that he didn't like to pee on, and a door he wouldn't bolt through. You left anything on the floor at your own risk.

If there was something nasty and smelly to roll in, he was the first on the scene. Only a month ago, I took a foul utterly dead mouse away from him. I had to scrub him (twice,) wipe him down with antibacterial wipes, AND powder him before I could stand to be in the same room with him.

And he made me laugh. Because that's what dogs do.

He came to Noah and me about 11 years ago. He'd been in a situation where he wasn't treated right. There was no intent, they just had no business with a puppy. It left him untrained, unsocialized, unsure of himself, and with serious trust issues. Noah carried him around inside his shirt for the first two weeks. After a month or two, this little quivering blob of black jelly found himself and has been going 90 miles an hour ever since.

Rocky scoffs at your "morning." 
He never learned any tricks and his relationship with house-breaking was always tenuous. But, he was always the first of the dogs to figure out a new doggy door arrangement or other challenges. What he lacked in brains he made up for in instinct and heart.

Because of his first year, he always had trouble with social cues, distrusted women, and could really be obnoxious. He wasn't sweet and adorable like Scruffy, a dog who never knew anything but love from the micro-second he was born. He lacked Charlie's dignity and Foxy's sheer beauty, but when you gained his trust, he was bonded to you for life.

He was Noah's dog - heart and soul. When Noah passed, Rocky was really lost for a few months. Then one day, that internal switch flipped and he transferred all of his fierce love and devotion to me. It was pretty wondrous. Even when I was at my wit's end with him, I understood the value of what he has given me.

I didn't grow up with dogs. My dad lost his beloved Jerry many years before I was born and never wanted another animal. We had a few strays that stayed with us here and there, but mostly we moved around too much to ever have pets. Not long after Noah and I got married, he started badgering me for a dog with the will and enthusiasm of a 6-year-old ("I'll take care of him, I SWEAR!") That led to Charlie and then to her pup Scruffy, to The Rock, and then finally Foxy.

I can honestly say there are days when I wish I didn't have 4 dogs. But my heart is nowhere near ready for not having 4 dogs. Charlie is almost 17. She is slowing down and softening around the edges. There are some early signs of kidney problems. Scruffy is almost 15 and fighting arthritis. Foxy, despite her dainty appearance, is a rough and tumble little tomboy at 8. I had to have all of her silky fur shaved last year when she found some tree sap to roll in and turn herself into a giant piece of taffy. They are all, in their own way, dogs. Each with spirit and personality. They live with me, not for me.

Emperor Rocky
I never thought it would be Rocky. Last night he came and sat by the bed. He couldn't jump up like he always did, so I picked him up and put him in his regular spot. He sighed and rested his head on my foot. At that moment, my heart was simultaneously full and empty.

Right now, he has rolled himself into one of the blankets I keep in the living room for the posse. I call this arrangement a "Chihuahua Puff." He could just be cold and wanting to be alone, or his instincts to hide as the final time arrives could be kicking in. I'll check him in an hour.

I'm doing my best to keep my grief and stress in check for his sake. I know he doesn't want to hurt me or make me sad.

I'll also give him his dignity.

He's not a china doll. He's a dog. And in the end, that is a magnificent thing.

EDITED To Add: On the night of Easter Sunday, Rocky came into the bedroom and sat in his place until I lifted him to his favorite spot to sleep at my feet. That was probably his last conscious act. By morning he was in a coma. I took his paw prints and was ready to go talk to the vet about the final solution. The other dogs barked and whined and I went to check. Rocky had slipped away. That gives me a lot of peace. He was afraid of the vet's office. Too busy, too many animals, and too many strange smells. Instead, he did what he loved best, he saw an open door and slipped through it. Like everything else he ever did, he crossed the bridge on his own terms. And my late husband has his bestest buddy back at his side. Thank you for all the kind words and messages. We should all be so lucky to pass in our favorite spot, surrounded by our pack.  

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

2017 Oscar Fest - The Broadway Melody

The second movie in my New Year's resolution to watch all the Oscar Best Pictures in order. Today is the winner of the second Academy Award, given out in 1930.

What's of note with The Broadway Melody of 1929, is that the original theater cut debuted with a Technicolor sequence, one of the first musicals to do so. It's likely that cinematic sorcery is what elevated this movie over its contenders. Sadly, that copy has been lost. The only surviving copies are all black and white. There was also a silent version because many theaters didn't have sound technology. Marinate on that for a second - a silent musical.

Competition was fierce that year. Broadway Melody beat out the gritty Howard Hughes movie about police corruption, The Racket. This movie was banned in more than one market because of how it portrayed the police. I'm guessing there were some politics at work there. Both in the nomination and in the loss. All art has a political component.

The Racket is exceedingly rare. I've only been able to find it in college library film collections. I will SO be checking it out.

Broadway Melody, the first all-talking MGM musical, also beat out the other MGM musical The Hollywood Revue of 1929, which was a cavalcade of talent. But, it had no plot. It was just a compilation of musical numbers, including Joan Crawford singing and dancing on stage. It's also rather rare, but on my must-see list. It is said that Hollywood Review was the beginning of the end of the line for many of the silent film stars when the voice didn't match the image.

What's cool about this project is not just seeing the evolution of movies and technology, but the studio politics and the social mores.

Obligatory plot summary: The Mahoney Sisters, plucky Hank and glamorous Queenie, arrive in New York City for their "big break." They've been on the county fair-dinner theater circuit to save enough money to rent a huge two-room apartment in a "theatrical hotel" that would probably rent for $5000 today (if you could find it.) But the girls have an ace. Eddie, a hometown boy who made good as a song and dance man, has got them an audition for the Zanfield Review on BROADWAY. *confetti* Eddie is also the high school sweetheart of Hank and hopes that she will finally marry him.

Until he sees Queenie. No longer a gawky teen, Queenie is now a statuesque platinum blonde with a farm girl's naive and open heart. Poor Hank. She always thought good old Eddie would always be there for her. She never realized that she was the third point on a love triangle until the very end.

The "big break" audition is awkward and almost painful to watch, but Zanfield says he can find something for the blonde, but not the "little clucker." Queenie, in a burst of girlish defiance, says they are a team, so The Mahoney Sisters are signed.

Queenie, however, becomes the toast of the show when the key sea goddess falls off the ship set in rehearsal. Suddenly, this small town girl is scantily clad in a Lady Godiva wig, on the prow of the ship, gesturing to the singer. SHE'S A HIT! And, of course, catches the eye of Jacques, the smarmy millionaire who is financing the show.

Hank loves Eddie. Eddie loves Queenie. Queenie loves Eddie but refuses to hurt Hank, so she throws herself into a whirlwind of New York glamor while ducking and dodging Jacques' ever more aggressive advances.

In the end, it's Hank who sacrifices herself for her sister's protection and happiness. *sniff*

Romance! Music! Broken Hearts! Skimpy Costumes! Wisecracks! Wacky Mayhem!

Yeah, it's as thin as it sounds, but there are two saving graces. The first is New York in the 1920s. The Art Deco glamor of the scenes and sets is just luscious. The second is an oddly satisfying musical number of a cast dancer, in what looks like a sexy mouse costume, tap dancing en pointe in toe shoes. TAP DANCING IN TOE SHOES.

The cast included the gamine Bessie Love and the glam girl Anita Page. Love received a nom for Best Actress for her, um, enthusiastic performance as Hank.

The caddish Eddie was played by Charles King, a vaudeville showman, who couldn't convert his stage career into box office gold.

Viewed through a contemporary lens, the three had an awkward comedic chemistry that was occasionally painful to watch but overall carried the story through to the expected ending. I had to remind myself that the audiences were seeing PEOPLE TALKING ON FILM. Some for the very first time. The exaggerated city accents and over-dramatic breathless presentation was par for the course. All the director and actors had to go on was stagecraft, which lacking the intimacy of film, required the extra drama to play to the balconies.

What is fun is the look behind the scenes of a low-budget Broadway review, done as a movie. The costumes and props had a cheesy realism and the character actors decorating the background were delightful.

"Is it safe?"

I'm sure plenty of that actually happened. The costumes were an absolute scream.

I couldn't find a good screen cap of the mouse-costumed toe shoe tap dancer. It was a WTF moment, inserted into a dance routine. It was like, "I dunno, but she's good, get her on stage now!"

What's fun about these movies looking back is that the old folks were pretty damn hip. No matter what we think today.

The dancers were healthy and robust. Curvy legs, real girl thighs, soft rounded shoulders and zoftig curves were in evidence in tiny shorts and skimpy costumes. Tons of peroxide platinum and elaborate beautiful cosmetics, coupled with an absence of, um, foundation garments conveyed the lush image of the flapper who managed to be naughty and innocent at the same time.

As with Wings, I was amused by the use of kissing in Broadway Melody. I don't know about y'all, but I never kissed my sister like this.

There was an also openly gay costume designer. Today, he would be seen as a flamboyant cliche, but there was no closet here. When he chucked another man under the chin and called him a cutie-pie, there was no doubt what the director was saying.

If our society could have kept the open free society of the 1920s, I think we'd be in a lot better condition now.

So, is The Broadway Melody high art? Absolutely not. It hasn't held up nearly as well as Wings or other classics of the day.

But, it's the beginning of:

Talking movies.
The screwball urban comedy.
The first use of the New York skyline/aerial shots in a movie.

And the music from the movie is still being played. This was the film debut of "Give My Regards to Broadway," by George M. Cohan. How many big budget blockbusters will be able to say that in 90 years?

Next up - All Quiet on the Western Front. 

Monday, January 16, 2017

2017 Oscar Fest - Wings

I have a good friend who sets up adventurous New Year's Resolutions. Fun stuff like decorating for and celebrating every last holiday or doing something new every day, even if it's taking a different route to the supermarket. Inspired by her, I set up my own for 2017. I'm going to watch all of the Oscar Best-Picture winners. I'm far from the first to do this (and blog about it,) but it's a big deal for me. Without being maudlin, events kept me away from doing many fun things these last few years and I'm on a mission to reclaim that time. I was watching a documentary about the history of the Oscars and was struck by how much I missed watching movies and how much I love old movies.

I have the technology to change that. I decided to wind it all the way back to the beginning. A combination of eBay, Netflix, (and Vimeo in a pinch,) are yielding up the treasures of yesteryear. A few are harder to find than expected, but so far so good.

Movies are our stories. They are our fables around the campfire and it's only right they be kept alive and passed on. So, let's get in the wayback machine and set it for 90 years ago:

*whirring noise*

The very first best picture Oscar was awarded on May 26, 1929, for the 1927/28 movies. Wings, a Paramount production took home the first award.

My 2017 resolution is totally worth it because it brought this gem into my life.

Produced in 1927, Wings was the first and only totally silent movie to win for Best Picture. And given the technology of the times, it not only holds up, but exceeds many modern movies. It also has some amazing tidbits that tell tales of how American societal and entertainment mores have evolved and not necessarily for the better.

A quick plot synopsis:

A small town boy named Jack is loved by a small town girl named Mary, yet he is too stupid to see it. He pines for the exotic Sylvia who is "visiting from the city." But Sylvia is smitten with David, son of the wealthiest family in town.

OH! NO! WAR! In the form of WWI, shown in a flaming panel, just in case you didn't know.

David and Jack join the Air Corp to become pilots. Jealous and distrustful of each other, they settle matters in the boxing ring, where Jack, after pounding David, says, "You've got game." Now the best of friends, they perform great acts of derring-do. Plucky Mary joins the Women's Motor Corp and serves the war effort in France. Sylvia, played by Jobnya Ralston, looks languid and ethereal.

The friend zone was a very real thing, even in the 1920s.

Cue mayhem, shenanigans, and romance (and bromance, but more about that later.)

*NOTE - from here on out, there be spoilers - ye be warned*

Mary is played by Clara Bow, Paramount's "It Girl." Shunned by Jack, she can portray the sorrow of the ages just with her eyes.

She was the consummate silent movie screen star. She also wasn't afraid to get dirty or show some skin. Working in a rough men's world, she should be regarded as a feminist icon.

She hated this role. She rightfully saw herself as the whipped cream on top of the bromance and felt she was too big a star for this. But damn, she is awesome. AND THOSE BOOTS.

The stars of the movie are Charles "Buddy" Rogers as the irrepressible Jack and Richard Arlen as the suave, yet sensitive, David. Their tag lines of "All Set?" and "O.K." play through the movie, including a hilarious scene at the Folies Bergere.

Don't we all wish we had someone who looks at us the way Jack and David do each other?

And in their leather pilots coats and goggles, well, sigh . . . . .

Another note is that in 1927, the screenplay was co-written by a woman, Hope Loring, and she got full screen credit for it alongside her husband.

Wings is a visual masterpiece. Instead of the usual 30 days it took to crank out a "matinee masterpiece," Wings was in production for 9 months. With an unheard of budget of $2 million and the full support of the War Department, the director, himself a skilled aviator, created a vivid, accurate, and exciting look into the lives of the pilots of WWI.

Filmed in San Antonio, Texas, the movie pioneered camera techniques for filming planes in flight as they looped and swooped through the mock dog fights with the Germans. Arlen was already a pilot and Rogers took enough training to be able to film their open cockpit scenes in real time in the air. Those are not on-the-ground glass matte scenes. The guys are behind the stick of those rickety little biplanes.

Given the era, the equipment, and the state of technology, the aerial scenes rival anything put out today. Wings was the Top Gun of its day.

They also wheel out a German Gotha, a two-story tall biplane that was the "dragon of the sky" bomber. It was stunning.

With the Air Corp behind the production, you get an inside look at the training methods of the day and those amazing little airplanes that so many risked (and lost) their lives in the part of the war that doesn't get as much coverage on the History Channel.

What sets Wings apart is the story-telling and the cinematography. Yes, the story is fairly predictable, but it is very satisfying, managing to tug nearly every heartstring.

Hidden in it are also some tidbits that surprised me. Well before the infamous Code and eschewing the bowlderizing of so much of the media, Wings is far from prudish.

I burst out laughing at this scene at the military induction center.

As recruits were filling out paperwork, a door in the background kept opening and closing to reveal a line of fine young men wearing nothing but their birthday suits.

Never referenced, just that line of taut butts flashing in the background as one of the comedic bits played out in the foreground.

I'm sure that got some shocked intake of breath and titters in the theater.

A fabulous sequence plays out in "Paris" with lush sets and superb camera work as our young heroes blow off some steam at the Folies Bergere. As the camera marches down the tables, we see an elegant lesbian couple, a couple that looks like a man and a trans-woman, and all the gorgeous 20s decadent glam you could want. There are even some early "generated effects" as Jack gets so drunk he "sees" bubbles coming out of not only the champagne but also the musical instruments.

David scoops up a satin clad girl and yells "All Set?" to which Jack clutches his cutie and replies, "O.K." Oh my. Oh la la . . . Enter Mary in her staid, but sexy, uniform and puppy dog eyes.

The kisses were quite open and passionate, including a rather uncomfortable one between David and his mother (played by Hedda Hopper in an uncredited cameo.)

But it's this kiss that showed just how far ahead of its time, or actually, how real Wings truly was. Unlike the later WWII stock John Wayne type war movies, giving a dying man a cigarette and a salute, this is how Jack says goodbye to David, and, in that way of early movies, his youth and innocence. He is no long "the shooting star."

Come on, we knew that David, for all his veneer of sophistication, was too pure and sensitive for this world. He was the designated victim. We knew it the moment David took the little bear from his mother after planting one on her.

Toss in a guest appearance by Gary Cooper as "Cadet White" and Wings is a party.


It's all handled with dialogue panels and music.

And isn't afraid to show a close relationship between men that isn't all drinking beer and chasing chicks.

And isn't afraid to show a woman in uniform who is performing a vital and dangerous role in a combat zone. Who, while she is "whipped cream" to the main plot, isn't just there to hang her boobs out and be a prop.

In 1927. 

Yeah, we're so hip these days.

This is one of those movies you didn't know was missing in your life. So, suspend belief and scare up a copy of the DVD or hunt it down online.

I'd say my foray into the land of the Oscars is off to an excellent start. Next up, Broadway Melody from 1929. It is the first taIkie and the first musical to win for Best Picture. It includes a scene of tap-dancing in toe shoes. What's not to love?

PS: These posts will be filed and labeled #OscarFest2017 if you want to follow along.