Iron Man (1931)

Tod Browning is so closely associated today with the macabre and often gruesome thrillers for which he achieved his greatest fame (Dracula, Freaks, The Unknown) that it is easy to forget that he worked in a number of different genres. One example is Iron Man (1931), a pre-Code boxing melodrama that was one of three films he made for Universal in the early '30s, sandwiched in between his loose 1930 remake of his 1921 crime drama Outside the Law, and his iconic horror film Dracula.

Iron Man stars Lew Ayres (one year after his star-making performance in All Quiet on the Western Front) as a young prizefighter who bounces back after losing his first fight, but once he achieves some success, his gold-digging wife (Jean Harlow) re-appears in his life, and after convincing him to dump his long-time manager (Robert Armstrong), the boxer's career begins to fall apart.

Browning had a knack for this kind of hard-hitting, gritty, urban material, as evidenced here and in Fast Workers (1933), which makes one curious to see what he would have done had he been able to explore it more frequently in the pre-Code sound film period.

Outside the Law (1930)

Edward G. Robinson stars in this tough pre-code crime drama -- directed by Tod Browning -- about a crook and his girlfriend who double-cross a local crime boss when they attempt to pull off a high-stakes bank heist in his territory at Christmas. A remake of Browning's 1921 silent film of the same name, this was his second talkie, and his first in a three-picture deal with Universal (the story -- by Browning and Garrett Fort -- would be filmed for a third time, also at Universal, in 1946 under the title INSIDE JOB).

It's interesting to see Robinson playing a gangster a year before his breakout performance in LITTLE CAESAR, and indeed, his "Cobra" Collins here seems like a prototype of Rico Bandello, especially with his distinctive delivery of gangland slang. Robinson is always a delight to watch, as he struts around like a rooster with his cocksure posturing, looking impeccably stylish and puffing on a cigar. It's easy to see the qualities here that brought him to the attention of Warner Bros. and would make him a star. Robinson is one of those actors for whom the sound film medium seemed to be invented; like Cagney, he's endlessly fascinating in how he uses his voice and body in subtle but highly expressive ways, and that is evident even in this early role, where he commands attention every time he is on screen.

Unfortunately, things get deadly dull when he is off-screen, especially in the second half which spends long stretches of time with bickering crooks Mary Nolan and Owen Moore, neither of whom seem particularly at ease in their roles. The plot drags interminably through their scenes together, taking place in a single, claustrophobic apartment set, only picking up a bit at the end during their final confrontation with Cobra, but by this point any tension in the drama has fizzled, and the ending is dramatically unsatisfying as a result.

Still, it's nicely shot by Roy Overbaugh, with some effective high-contrast lighting in the bank heist scenes, and filled with some of Browning's trademark flourishes, especially his emphasis on certain props to reveal character details, and his affinity with sideshows and dime museums (in the form of a bizarre "living art" exhibit). Browning's talkies are frustrating experiences because they are largely stagy, static affairs, yet often contain tantalizing traces of his distinctive visual style that made his silent films so interesting even when the plots were absurd. This one is no exception, but it makes an interesting counterpart to his earlier filming of the same story.

Miracles for Sale (1939)

Tod Browning's final film is an entertaining if rather tepid supernatural mystery about a magician who becomes involved in helping the police to solve the murder of a phony spiritualist. Running a brisk 68 minutes, it has the feel of a B programmer, though produced with characteristically high production values by MGM and greatly aided by Browning's distinctive style.

The story (based on Clayton Rawson's book, "Death from a Top Hat") seems tailor made for Browning, given its themes of magic, deception, crime, and the supernatural. Robert Young and Florence Rice make for appealing leads, and they are ably supported by a good cast including the likes of Frank Craven, Henry Hull, Lee Bowman, Astrid Allwyn, Cliff Clark, and William Demarest. There are some good atmospheric thrills but also some moments of cornball humor that work against the macabre tone. It's a minor film, to be sure, but a fine and fitting swan song for this most unique director.

The Unholy Three

Tod Browning remains one of the most intriguing directors of the silent era. Best known for grotesque and bizarre crime dramas and character-driven horror, Browning falls into a delicate middle-ground of silent film directors. His work is definitely distinct, even when it is not terribly interesting. He really achieved his mark with a series of films starring Lon Chaney, who appeared in every conceivable makeup in a variety of grotesque roles. Unlike some of Chaney's other directors, such as Wallace Worsley, Victor Sjostrom and Herbert Brenon, Browning was most interested precisely in that grotesque element, fusing it with popular crime stories.

One of the earliest Chaney-Browning collaborations at MGM, the studio at which both of them worked regularly from 1925 on, is a truly bizarre film about three ex-sideshow performers who hatch an elaborate scheme to steal jewels. Professor Echo (Chaney) is the ventriloquist with a gift for throwing his voice. Harry Earles is Tweedledee, the midget who flies into a fury of violence when he is laughed at for his height (in the opening of the film, we see him kick a small boy in the face). Victor McLaglen is Hercules, the strong man. Together, they form "the unholy three", and set about on their scheme. There is also a bit of romance, between Echo and Rosie O'Grady (Mae Busch), whom Echo becomes extremely protective of partly through concern for the scheme, and partly from jealousy.

The scheme itself is quite elabroate. Echo disguises himself as "Mrs. O'Grady", bird seller, who throws his voice to convince customers that the parrots he sells them can talk. When the customers call back to complain, "Mrs. O'Grady" and her "grandson" (Harry Earles) take a trip out to the house, where they proceed to case the joint before coming back to rob it. Rosie begins a relationship with Hector MacDonald, the young shop assistant working in the bird store, which both threatens their plans and makes Echo jealous.

Things go horribly awry after Earles strangles the child of a wealthy victim in front of the Christmas tree in a rage. Before long, the detectives are on their trail, and things quickly unravel.

Depending on how you look at it, this is either of the strongest of the Browning-Chaney collaborations, or one of the weakest. The film is filled with gimmicks, and contains many memorable bits, most involving Chaney and Earles in their disguises, as well as the "speech balloons" that are used to convey the voices supplied for the parrots by Chaney. On the other hand, the plot itself takes a while to really get going, and lacks the narrative drive of their best collaborations. Part of the problem is that it's a little difficult to become too involved with any of the characters. The crime becomes the centerpiece of the film rather than the characters, which is ultimately all wrong for a film like this. Also like many of the other Browning-Chaney collaborations, it lacks the artistry that makes a film like "He Who Gets Slapped" and "Laugh, Clown, Laugh" so interesting even in their slower spots. Browning's framing of the shots is relatively straightforward, and does little to heighten the potential for interesting cinematography. There are shots, too, which feel as if they last longer than they need to.

It is interesting to compare the 1925 version with its 1930 remake, which is practically a shot by shot remake featuring some of the same cast (Chaney and Earles). That version was directed by Jack Conway, one of MGM's least distinct functionaries, and he seems to be copying Browning's original as a model of style. In some ways, the film actually works better as a talkie. It's certainly shot and edited like a talkie (in a way that, say, "The Unknown" isn't). The plot device of having the ventriloquist throw his voice is clearly better served in sound, but also heightens the absurdity of the whole idea when we actually hear Chaney talking in a "little old lady" voice.

"The Unholy Three" is probably the instrumental film in moving Chaney away from the crime dramas that he most often appeared in earlier in his career ("The Ace of Hearts", the brilliant "The Penalty"), and toward the sideshow gallery of the grotesque that made him an icon.