Ten Cents a Dance

Fans of pre-Code films will forgive this 1931 Columbia Pictures feature directed by Lionel Barrymore (his last directorial effort) if only because it stars Barbara Stanwyck in an early role. As is the case with all stars, she is even then true in every moment, entirely believable, and far surpasses the wooden script and the rest of the cast. Most embarrassing is Monroe Owsley as her no-good husband; he is particularly bad, totally false, overacting. Ricardo Cortez has a thankless role and does his best. This is a perfect example of how a star can make something out of nothing by the sheer power of her personality.

Between the tacky title and the pre-Code year (1931), I was expecting a carload of cheap thrills. Happily, the first ten minutes does deliver. There's the tawdry lineup of taxi dancers waiting to get mauled; the over-loud bouncy band; and the tacky guys eager for ten cents of hard-boiled maybe's. Then there's the dressing room where the girls get to trade war stories and smooth out their nylons. No, it's not exactly the uptown social register, but it is colorful as heck. Plus, the slinky, gum-popping Stanwyck couldn't be more at home.

But then the story goes all soap-opera, as Barbara (Stanwyck) tries to hang onto her philandering husband, a very un-charismatic Eddie (Owsley), who also happens to steal from his employer (Cortez) who also happens to be an uptown socialite who also happens to have a yen for Barbara, of all people. Yes, it does get a little confusing. But hang on anyway, since our suddenly very faithful ex-taxi dancer has to suffer big time in order to deserve her eventual reward. I expect there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

No, I didn't get the cheap thrill carload I was hoping for. But Stanwyck does compensate for a lot. Plus I really liked the camaraderie amongst the girls, sort of like what you find among men in combat. But then I guess that fits. Anyhow, if you have a preference for weepies and gum-popping dames, this stone age talky fills the bill.

Columbia programmer "inspired by the song by Rodgers and Hart," and in fact it's sung over the credits, including the "pansy" line, which got censored in future film renditions. But all it really inspires is the setting, a dime-a-dance hall, where Stanwyck, in an early, prototypical role, is pursued by a rich (Cortez) and poor (Owsley) guy, and in a clever reversal, the nice-seeming poor guy turns out to be a cad and the rich guy is genuine and caring. Stanwyck's facial expressions alone are touching and assured, and she even cries convincingly, unlike many more actressy actresses of the period. Owsley is callow and unlikable, but then that's what he's playing, and Cortez underplays well, with liquid eyes that are indeed the mirrors to this character's soul. It's indifferently directed by Lionel Barrymore and has little in production value, but Jo Swerling's screenplay isn't bad, and the pre-Code candor is a treat.

Barbara Stanwyck's character isn't that usual confident and sexually charged young woman she had perfected back in the early 30s. In this she is more fragile but as you'd expect from her, she pulls this role off perfectly. In this life her job is being a brassy dance hall hostess selling herself to sex hungry men but trying hard not to let this seedy occupation encroach on her actual life. In that life she is an optimist, an innocent girl waiting for Mr Right to sweep her off her feet - but she's a realist too and when she's given the option of a young handsome millionaire who seems too good to be true or a guy, down on his luck from her own apartment block she picks whom she considers the sensible choice. Wrong!

Unlike in most pictures, this millionaire is actually as good as he seems (if not better). Barbara's guy from the apartment turns out to be a monster. Not an over the top movie monster but a believable vulnerable young man with his own issues. His insidious nastiness fuelled by his own insecurities and self loathing quickly bubbles up to the surface making him a cruel bully coercively controlling his doting vulnerable wife. We the audience can see this happening long before his devoted , loyal wife and we're shouting at her to wake up and see the truth but she muddles on in her own rose coloured fantasy world towards disaster. You can see similar stories being played out today both on tv and in sadly in the real world. This isn't the best portrayal of such 'toxic relationships' but it's interesting to see a 1931 take on this.

Despite the naturalistic acting, a bit part for Loretta Young's sister, the wonderful way this brilliantly captures the feel of 1931 (as a piece of time travel, this picture's fabulous) it's not "a great film." Lionel Barrymore, for a change is not acting but directing and he does a reasonable job (although I can't see anything which particularly demonstrating any individuality or style). It does however succeed absolutely in the goal of any motion picture - it affects you emotionally. The Barbara character is a bit wet but you definitely empathise with her. You will also definitely hate that pig she ends up with.

Soon after this effort, Lionel Barrymore went back to acting full-time. I wouldn't blame him. Although Stanwyck is excellent as usual, this is a slight tale, typical of the time, that she alone makes worth watching—one time only. There's something frustrating, moreover, about how her character remains faithfully committed to the lout played by Monroe Owsley for so long. I suppose we have to accept that behavior which in our day would seem masochistic was the cultural norm in 1931 for most women. On the Pre-Code front, there's a gum-chewing scene stealer, foxy Sally Blane as Molly, a newbie who can't wait to dive into the sleazy dance hall world, although Stanwyck tries to advise her (and immediately says she knows that Molly is underage).

What brings everything down is the low budget. Columbia could mount a good-looking feature from time to time, but in 1931, I suppose they weren't doing it very much. The art director does suggest the opulence of Ricardo Cortez's apartment effectively without showing its interior; we get the idea from the lobby, hallway leading up to his door and vestibule, with its snazzy Spanish California motif. But the rest of the picture is pretty threadbare, and Barrymore's direction seems perfunctory and hurried, as if pressured by budget and schedule constraints (I hasten to add that budget is not necessarily everything; take a look at the excellent, absorbing Five Star Final, which basically takes place in two newspaper offices and an apartment living room, to see how resourcefully such conditions can be handled).

As for the story itself, it looks like it was dreamed up by somebody and sketched out on the back of an envelope all in the space of one afternoon. If Barrymore felt dispirited, he sure showed 'em, going into "A Free Soul" this very year, where his performance blew everybody's minds and won him a lifetime MGM contract. The song of the title is pretty good; we hear but do not see it performed by a torchy vocalist.