D. Ted Green
B&W
It’s no doubt Cary Grant’s later association with Alfred
Hitchcock which ensures that the Dropper Harris films are now forgotten relics
of a more dashing age. And that’s a shame, as they’re a bit creaky and stiff
(but then a lot of films in 1937 are a bit creaky and stiff) but these are
sharp and suspenseful movies, which are a lot more fun and free-wheeling than
most American thrillers of the age. Yes, the plot doesn’t make much sense. Yes,
the version of England it pedals couldn’t be any more obviously California
unless the Hollywood sign appeared and all the houses of parliament started to
sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, but I have a massive soft spot for this film and
its sequels. Whatever their flaws, they’re a lot of fun. And Cary Grant is a
great choice for the square jawed hero, as even when he’s playing it straight he
can’t help but seem to subvert the whole concept.
We’re in London, the home of pea-soupers and cheerful
cockneys and the occasional horse drawn hansom carriage (the last detail is
particularly baffling, as otherwise this is set in what is then the present
day). Grant is Hugh ‘Dropper’ Harris, the finest investigator in the British
service. His job title is as vague as ‘consulting detective’ and it’s never
clear throughout the series whether he’s a policeman or a spy, but it doesn’t
really matter. He is Richard Hannay with a license, or Bulldog Drummond in
spats. What he calls himself doesn’t matter, his job is to have adventures, and
along with his sidekick Binky (Tommy Harrison) he’s about to find that the case
of the speeding bullet is one of the most dangerous he’s ever had.
The conductor of the
London Philharmonic is gunned down mid performance (shades of the original ‘The
Man Who Knew Too Much’), but it seems that the bullet struck before the shot
was fired. How is that possible and – more importantly – who did it? Dropper
Harris is on the case. Of course this is just a creaky hat-stand on which to
hang the whole thrilling adventure, and you may wonder if it’s actually sturdy
enough or whether it will collapse with a thud and the swishing of tailored
jackets – but, rest assured, it may wobble from time to time but there’s enough
ballast to provide 84 minutes of top quality black & white hi-jinks.
So off we go: there’s Sylvia Sydney as the most fatale of
femme fatales, smoking through a cigarette holder as if brandishing a weapon;
there’s Madeline Carroll as the good girl possibly gone bad, clutching both
pigtails and a revolver; there’s Spencer Tracey as the businessman who may be
behind it all; and Humphrey Bogart as his menacing henchman. (Grant, Tracey and Bogart all in one film
together, and still it’s only remembered by geeks like me. Go figure!) Most of
them don’t even bother to tackle the accent, which combined with Grants transatlantic
tones make this London one of the most international cities in the world.
It’s a film with some of the best scenes anywhere in cinema.
Here’s Spencer Tracey trying to intimidate Cary Grant over cocktails – a
triumph of cracking dialogue and clinking glasses and lots of good natured
smiling. It’s two friends together, laughing and telling jokes, with one friend
making it clear he’d like to murder the other. Elsewhere we have Bogart trying
to do a bit of menacing while he and Grant try out pogo-sticks in a Bloomsbury
toy shop. Just watching those two icons of cinema bouncing up and down while
exchanging breathless dialogue is one of the most joyful sights I’ve ever witnessed.
Clearly they felt that joy, as the camera is constantly cutting to obviously
let them laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, And finally there’s Sylvia
Sydney cornering Grant in front of the monkey cage in private zoo in Kensington
Palace, launching into a long and wide-eyed speech about how she likes thick
and long lasting cigars, the kind only the right kind of handsome Englishman
possesses. It’s a triumph of innuendo, double entendre, a shared bag of peanuts
and a chimpanzee who mugs as if in a silent comedy, clearly wanting star-billing
in his own right.
(On a side note, is there really a private zoo in Kensington
Palace? I think The Tax Payer’s Alliance should investigate.)
It sounds exactly what it is, a very Manhattan film – not Bloomsbury
or Chelsea or Waterloo or Mansion House or any of the other names the film’s
characters drop in without having a clue what they’re talking about. But that
doesn’t matter. This is set in London like Terry Gilliam’s film is set in
Brazil, it’s a glamorous state of mind, a fantasy world of beautiful woman,
guns, danger and an impossibly dashing leading man.
As its Grant who truly makes this film great. In the wrong
hands it could have been po-faced, but Grant is so convincing as this super
secret agent even as he has fun with the material. It’s what makes him the
finest cinema leading man there ever was. Cary Grant always manages to be
convincing in every role he does, even when he’s being Cary Grant. Here he
winks at the audience to let them know that it’s all a joke, even as he carries
us along with the excitement and danger. He know this isn’t a serious film, he
know that the rope isn’t going to burn and that the safe is not going to drop
on Dropper Harris’s handsome skull, but he takes us through and lets us both
take it seriously and laugh at it and have an absolute whale of a time as we
do.
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