The Little Giant (1933)

Excellent Warners Pre-coder, with Edward G. Robinson in a fun send-up of his gangster characterization. He decides to cash in and get out of the bootlegging business when the repeal of Prohibition seems imminent, and heads from Chicago to California, where he intends to set himself up in high society. Robinson clearly has a lot of fun with the role, and is ably supported by Mary Astor, Helen Vinson, Russell Hopton, Louise Mackintosh, Berton Churchill, and Tammany Young. Roy Del Ruth's tight and vigorous direction keeps the pace fast and furious, and there is scarcely a wasted moment in its scant 75 minute running time.

Behind Stone Walls (1932)

Ludicrous, improbable drama, with silent screen star Priscilla Dean as a district attorney's wife involved in an affair with another man, whom she kills after he wants to end the affair. Her lawyer son confesses to the murder in order to protect her, but when the case comes to trial, the son finds himself prosecuted by his own father. After the son is sentenced to life in prison, the victim's butler sets out to blackmail the DA's wife, whom he knows is the true killer.

With its funereal pacing and total lack of cinematic imagination, the film is only of interest as one of the very few examples of Dean's sound film work. One of Universal's biggest stars of the early '20s, by the middle of that decade her career had already slumped to the point where she was working in two-reel comedies for Hal Roach. Her performance here seems unsure and rather awkward, not helped by the clumsy, preposterous script, stilted dialogue and uninspired direction, though there are still glimmers in her screen presence of the qualities that had made her a star a decade earlier.

365 Nights in Hollywood (1934)

A rather weak, meandering story about a washed-up director, reduced to working at a rip-off acting school, and his new pupil, a young hopeful newly arrived in Hollywood. They get their opportunity to work on a new film together, which turns out to be an investment scam cooked up by the crooked acting school manager to swindle a young rube of his inheritance money. The show must go on, however, and all is set right in the end.

Of interest mainly for a very early starring turn by Alice Faye, who strongly resembles Jean Harlow here with her platinum blonde hair. Her performance is a bit reserved and awkward during the dramatic scenes, but in her musical numbers there are glimpses of the playful charm and personality that would make her one of the biggest stars of the decade on the Fox lot. James Dunn as the director turns in a characteristically pleasant if over-eager performance. Though the script brings them together in the end, Dunn and Faye are given little opportunity to establish much romantic chemistry throughout the film, leaving the ending feeling rushed and underdeveloped.

George Marshall -- normally a competent, reliable craftsman with a talent for comedy -- seems unsure and hesitant in his direction here, particularly in the handling of the slapstick scenes, which feel under-rehearsed and awkwardly staged. These problems are not helped by the loose, sprawling script which moves from scene to scene with little rhyme or reason. The film only really comes to life during the musical numbers, with their Art Deco sets and inventive effects. It's an interesting time capsule of early '30s Hollywood, but beyond that there's little to recommend it.

Lights of New York (1928)

Famous for being the first 100% all-talkie feature film, LIGHTS OF NEW YORK is actually a rather tepid little crime drama, about a young, small-town rube who gets mixed up with big city bootleggers and is framed for the murder of a cop. The plot is the stuff of stock melodrama, so naturally everything turns out alright in the end.

Its slight construction can probably be attributed to the fact that it was originally planned as a two-reel dramatic short subject, which was later expanded to feature length. More interesting to observe is the staging of shots for the infant medium of sound film. Actors are frequently grouped together in close proximity to the microphones concealed on the set. Closeups and other cutaways are used sparingly, only occasionally achieving a real fluidity in the editing. Likewise, the performances are stiff and stilted, the dialogue often delivered with deliberate over-enunciation, which renders the gangland slang almost laughable at times (most notably when crime boss Wheeler Oakman ominously intones to his henchmen, "take him for...a ride"). The quality of the sound recording is quite good, but overall the staging is greatly restricted by the limitations imposed by the technology (though filming the scene of the policeman's murder entirely in silhouette is an interesting stylistic choice that takes advantage of sound effects). The film only really comes to life during the nightclub musical numbers -- particularly "At Dawning" performed by Harry Downing -- which brim with energy.

Though it is primarily an historical curio now, the film -- with its gritty urban backdrop, gangland slang dialogue, and "backstage musical" numbers -- often feels like a prototype for the kind of movies with which Warner Bros. would become identified during the early '30s.