The Mummy (1932)

I cannot, today, begin to adequately describe to anyone the terror and the thrill I felt when I saw Karl Freund's The Mummy for the first time. I was ten years old. Spending the night at my cousins house in southwestern New York State. Dairy country, ya know. We made popcorn and fudge, and had staked out positions around my uncle's living room, because the Friday Night Creature Feature was coming on at 10:30 PM. There we sat in that darkened room as the mummy of Im-ho-tep, majestically played by Boris Karloff, came to life, his bandage-clad hand reaching out to take the sacred scroll that reanimated him, while the poor young anthropologist goes stark staring mad. The shivers that ran up and down my spine as Im-ho-tep, disguised as modern-day Egyptian Ardath Bey explains how Im-ho-tep was buried alive to Helen Grosvenor (Zita Johann), the modern-day reincarnation of his ancient lover, Princess Anck-es-en-Amon. I had nightmares about being buried alive for months afterwards. There was the incredible tension as Dr. Muller (Edward Van Sloan) and Frank Whemple (David Manners) race to save Helen from the clutches of the evil Im-ho-tep. And who could forget that last shot of Im-ho-tep's decaying corpse with half of the skull collapsed. *shudder* This was the stuff that fired little boys' imaginations back in 1970. Watching this movie, I dreamed of going to Egypt, wearing a pith helmet, digging for long-buried Egyptian cities.

The Mummy was produced by Carl Leammle, Jr. The son of Universal Studios founder Carl Laemmle, Carl, Jr. was responsible for turning Universal into the horror movie studio and for raising horror movies to the level of art. He was responsible for such classic films as Frankenstein, Dracula, The Invisible Man, The Black Cat, Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Old Dark House, and many more. It's safe to say that without him, horror movies would never have become the important genre that they are today, and names like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi would be little more than footnotes in movie history. Karl Freund began his career as a cinematographer working on German expressionist films of the 1920s. He directed Lugosi in the 1931 classic Dracula, before turning his hand to The Mummy. Freund is responsible for making Universal's monsters tragic figures instead of simply frightening ghouls. Dracula and Im-ho-tep, under Freund's direction, are sympathetic characters, lonely old men who long to have someone to share their immortality with them. Sure, we're frightened of them, but we also feel for them. In their isolation, Freund's monsters are the ultimate Others, outsiders who will never be allowed admittance into the club, sub-humans who will always be driven out and killed.

Boris Karloff had been making movies since 1919, but it was Frankenstein in 1931 that made him famous. Still, he didn't often get to speak. In The Mummy, he finally does, and his voice is mesmerizing. It would become iconic apart from the man behind it. Everyone knows that Frankenstein sounds like Karloff, just as everyone knows that vampires sound like Lugosi. Edward Van Sloan had also been around Hollywood for quite some time, and had already made appearances in Frankenstein and Dracula. Sloan was the go-to guy in the 1930s for the slightly eccentric scientist who apparently got his PhD in monsterology. Zita Johann only made eight movies during her life, the last one being a low-budget horror flick in 1983. But she did a lot of theater work over the years, and starred with John Houseman (to whom she was once married) and Orson Welles. She brings to The Mummy a freshness and beauty to stand in stark contrast with Karloff's dusty, crackly makeup. If Karloff is Death, Johann is Rebirth. The rest of the actors are all merely types, set there to help move the plot forward. As such, though, they do a very good job.

Many people, when watching The Mummy and other films of this time period, comment on how very stylized the acting appears. But one must remember that these movies came only a couple of years after talking pictures came into being. In silent films, actors had to convey everything they were feeling through body movements and facial gestures. Everything had to be exaggerated. It took Hollywood a few years to break out of that mindset. If you can look beyond that - or even learn to love it as I do - you will see what a visually stunning film this is. The velvety black and white photography lends it a distance that only adds to the mystique of the story. It happened "back then" the film seems to say, when magical things were still possible, even if only just. And all of the special effects are done without computers. This was true movie-making genius.

The Mummy is rated G and is filmed in black and white. Colorized versions are not permitted.

Ninotchka (1939)

France, prior to World War II. Three Russian bureaucrats - Iranoff (Sig Ruman), Buljanoff (Felix Bressart) and Kopalski (Alexander Granach) - arrive in Paris. Their mission? To raise money for the Soviet Union by selling jewelry confiscated during the revolution. Only one problem. The original owner of the jewels - the Countess Swana (Ina Claire) - is in Paris also. And she's not happy about the Soviet Union selling what used to be hers. She sends her friend Leon (Melvyn Douglass) to stop them. So he does. With a law suit. While they wait for the legal process to run its course, Leon introduces Iranoff, Buljanoff and Kopalski to Parisian food, Parisian women and Parisian joi de vie. They're more than happy to wait on the Parisian legal system. But their boss, the cold and calculating Razinin (Bela Lugosi) is not so happy to wait. He sends Ninotchka (Greta Garbo), his best operative, to hurry the situation along. And here's where the movie really gets going. Ninotchka meets Leon by chance on the street. He becomes infatuated with her at once. "A Russian!" he says. "I love Russians." He follows her to the top of the Eiffel tower. There he suggests they return to his apartment. They make love - 1930s style - they talk, they embrace, the camera fades, you fill in the blanks. Then she discovers that he's the one who brought the law suit against the selling of the jewels. She quickly leaves. But Leon is not discouraged. He continues to pursue her. One day, he follows her to a little restaurant, where he attempts to amuse her. She's remains as stone faced as ever. Without any warning, his chair tips over and he crashes to the floor. Then the unthinkable happens - Garbo laughs.

Kids today might think this is no big deal. But in 1939? This was something to talk about. Garbo didn't laugh. She might smile. She might giggle - slightly. But she didn't laugh. Garbo was something that we simply do not have today. She was a screen presence. She was something ethereal, a person who didn't exist in the real world where mortals dwelt. She lived only on the silver screen in the darkened theater. She had a quality about her that is hard to define. It had always been there. She was already a legend when she made her fist talking movie, Anna Christie, in 1930. She remained a legend - and a mystery - until her death in 1990. She had many lovers, but never married. She was beloved by millions. When she died, France gave her a state funeral. On screen, she was matchless. She could show a panoply of emotions with the arch of one eye brow. Ninotchka was her first, and only, comedy. It was also her penultimate film. She was brilliant and funny, playing the foil for Melvyn Douglas, who was as humorous in his suave way as ever. Few actors have the ability to make you laugh just by standing there in a tuxedo. Douglas could. His face was so expressive that he could set an audience roaring with the twitch of his mouth. Of course, today we just don't get it. I guess we're too sophisticated. Now we have to have bathroom humor shoved into our faces in order to laugh. But 1939 was a simpler time.

Ninotchka was one of director Ernst Lubitcsh's three favorite movies. It's easy to see why. The film has a warmth to it, a kind of joy in it that doesn't appear often in movies. Every actor in the film is perfectly cast in their parts. The sets are gorgeous, the dialogue quick and witty, the screenplay brilliantly funny. Leon eventually wins the heart of Ninotchka. Then the jewels are sold, and Nonitchka, Iranoff, Buljanoff and Kopalski are sent back to Moscow. Leon's plan to get Ninotchka back is both clever and hilarious. Hollywood was very good at turning out "screwball comedies" back in the 1930s and 40s. Somewhere along the way, they lost their touch. We are less fortunate today for that loss. But we still have the classics to fall back on. Ninotchka is one of the best.

Ninotchka is rated G and is filmed in glorious black and white.

Dracula (1931)

Dracula! The very name inspires hundreds of images in people's minds, everything from Bela Lugosi to Count Chocula. But with the release of the third movie in the Twilight series, I thought I'd take a look back to where it all started, back to the original Dracula, back to Todd Browning's 1931 masterpiece starring Lugosi as the ancient, blood-thirsty and tragic vampire. And tragic is the concept I want to focus on here, because that is the thing that most of the remakes and knock-offs and other variations of the story always fail to capture. The original 1931 Dracula was a tragedy in that Dracula himself was a truly tragic figure and Browning was sympathetic to his tragic nature. After all, here is a man who is cursed to never see the light of day, a man who lives out a life devoid of friends because friendship with him brings the risk of becoming like him, a man who is despised and hunted because of his difference. It is Dracula's difference - his otherness - that makes him such a tragic figure. It also makes him an early symbol of all the Others who have ever existed in our society, from black Americans to AIDS victims to Muslims. Dracula serves as a metaphor for all of them.

The story is familiar to just about everyone by now. Dracula moves from his crumbling castle in Transylvania to London, where he meets the beautiful Mina (Helen Chandler). He immediately sets about seducing her, to the dismay of her fiance' Jonathan Harker (David Manners) and her father Doctor Seward (Herbert Bunston). Dracula is assisted at times by his minion Renfield (Dwight Frye), a man who has gone insane in Dracula's service. As Mina starts succumbing to Dracula's powers, Seward calls on Dr. Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan) for help. Van Helsing immediately recognizes what Dracula is, and casts him out of the house. When Dracula kidnaps Mina, Van Helsing, Harker and Seward pursue him to his castle where they drive a stake through his heart, killing him and releasing Mina from his power.

Of course, this tells you very little about Todd Browning's film. Many younger people may be disappointed by the film, because it doesn't contain a lot of the things we've come to associate with vampire movies. For instance, you won't see any nudity, sex, violence or blood. That's right. In the original film, the only blood seen is when Renfield pokes his finger on a paper clip. Even the slaying of Dracula himself takes place off camera. Instead, Browning relies on atmosphere. There are ancient castles and creepy forests, men in dark suits and women in gossamer night gowns walking zombie-like through misty darkness, cobwebs and shadows, tension and suspense. The sets are elaborate, and the special effects are minimal - there's no CGI morphing, no impossible stunts. The musical score, composed specifically for this movie and performed by the Kronos Quartet, is appropriately melancholic. The acting may seem stiff to people today, but it must be remembered that since talking movies had only been around for four years, movies in 1931 still retained a lot of the staging of silent films. But Lugosi's delivery is perfect as he invites Renfield to "Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make."

Modern vampire films may be flashy, sexy, fast-paced, CGI-laden, gore fests, but they still can't compete with the original Dracula. It set the standard by which all subsequent vampire films have been measured ever since. Check it out some time, if you dare.

Dracula is rated G and is available in gloriously restored black and white.