Presidiarias

Nan Taylor (Barbara Stanwyck) is caught trying to help three men rob a bank. She sweet talks an innocent, powerful man David Slade (Preston Foster) into defending her, but confesses at the last minute. She's sent to prison and plots her revenge. The prison has a lesbian (shown once), a black prisoner who actually has lines (very surprising for the 1930s), a bird that terrorizes the inmates (don't ask), catfights and some pretty elaborate cells for the women. It makes prison seem like a great place to be!

A definite one of a kind with some pretty risque (for 1933) lines and situations. Barbara Stanwyck is just great in the title role. She tears into it and gives it her all--especially at the end. Lillian Roth also is very good as a fellow prisoner. As for Foster--he's tall and handsome...that's about it, but he fulfills his role.

Tough, fun, very quick (69 minutes) pre-Code movie. Definetely worth a look.

Barbara Stanwyck is a front for bank robbers who winds up in San Quentin in "Ladies They Talk About," a pre-code drama. The film is badly dated with very melodramatic acting, the exceptions being Stanwyck and Lillian Roth. Not to mention, it's an absurd story. A popular reformer, "Brother David Slade" falls for Barbara the minute he sees her, believes her innocent, and wants to help her. He arranges for her release from jail, and then, brimming with confidence, she confesses that she was indeed part of the bank robbery. Shattered, he sends her up the river to San Quentin.

Once there, Stanwyck becomes a popular inmate with the exception of Sister Susie who's in love with Slade and hates her guts. Stanwyck helps her old buddies from the bank robbery escape by tunneling to her cell. The story goes on from there.

Lillian Roth is great as a young woman who befriends Stanwyck, and she gets to sing. Stanwyck is fabulous with her wavy hair and tough talk. Preston Foster mainly looks pious and sincere.

The film is interesting because of Stanwyck and Roth, but the story isn't good. Happily this was at the beginning of Stanwyck's career, and she went on to better things.

It's a little surprising for those of us who grew up on a double dose of the aging Stanwyck playing an almost hysterical, often villainous matriarch in low-budget theatrical releases or on TV, to see how pale, slender, and vulnerable she was in the early 30s.

Here she's the daughter of a small-town deacon who has suffered through one lecture too many and gone wrong, sent to San Quention for involvement in a bank robbery. (I think -- come to think about it, I'm not sure WHY she was sent up. No evidence links her to complicity in the robbery. All that stands against her is an informal confession to a guy she likes, not made under oath, and easily recanted. Well -- no matter.) Preston Foster is the righteous DA she falls for. He grew up in the same small town, the son of the town drunk, but he straightened up and flew right. Too right, for some tastes. By the way, the small town they grew up in, in which everyone knew everyone else's name, is Benicia, now absorbed into the greater San Francisco Bay Area and it has a population of more than 25,000.

The plot, which comes from a play, carries a lot of familiar real-life baggage and is less interesting than the characters we meet in the course of a kind of tribal study of the ladies' section of San Quentin. There are, first of all, quite a few African-Americans among the inmates, a bit surprising considering the audience the film was aimed at. They're treated mostly humorously but not moreso than the white inmates, and the humor isn't stereotypical. Ruth Donnelly, a familiar face in old movies if there ever was one, is the not entirely unsympathetic warden or whatever her title is. She sometimes carries around a gigantic cockatoo or something on her shoulder which seems to serve no purpose except to scare defiant inmates when it flexes its wings and squawks. Lillian Roth has a prominent supporting part. She's quite pretty, and she sings old songs with more zest than Susan Hayward did in the weeper, "I'll Cry Tomorrow." (Great title, there, Hollywood.) There is the elderly Madam, happily ensconced in her chair, making wisecracks about how all the inmates are now "my girls." Nobody in the movie is thoroughly rotten. If there is a villain, it is the woman who has been born again while in prison and is spiteful, jealous and judgmental. Saints preserve us from zealots. Stanwyck is a surprise in her performance too. She's as good as she's ever been, slouching around in her prison dress, hands in pockets, giving as good as she gets. A grim cigar-smoking dyke is held up for fun without being ridiculed or turned into a monster.

The movie is a curiosity. It's easy to watch, kind of fun, and not badly done. Snippy dialogue, a quick pace, an unpretentious plot, all make it worth a watch.

Don't expect much in the way of pre-Code titillation with this simple film adapted from a play. What you do get is a starring vehicle for Barbara Stanwyck, who plays the moll of a gang who robs banks.

After being apprehended, she is sent to San Quentin, where she learns to live with prison rules and the social structure there. She's a tough cookie, always looking to assert herself, even on her first day of captivity.

Except for the presence of guards, life as depicted in the women's prison is much like "Stage Door", with a leisurely, genial attitude. Comic touches abound in this film, like the scene where one inmate sings to a headshot of Joe E. Brown, of all people.

While Stanwyck is strong in her role and Preston Foster is solid in his briefer portrayal of the revivalist who never gives up on her, "Ladies They Talk About" has a story too simple to challenge the viewer or, for that matter, the actors themselves. And the drama is minimal.

But it's fun to see Stanwyck in one of her earlier films.

This is a fine example of the Barbara Stanwyck fans would come to know in future years. Her role is tough as nails (remember this production is pre -code) and no-nonsense but still smooth and sexy. One of the best of Stanwyck's early work.