I’ve been a bad boy again, haven’t I?
The pleasures of Alias Boston Blackie (1942), one of a series concerning an ex-felon now trying to go straight, lie in its details – the hotel manager who, in his 15 seconds of screen time, builds more character than most of the lead actors; Blackie’s assistant misleading the police, who are not mislead – and Blackie knows they’re not mislead; the clown who appears to be 60 years old, yet performs acrobatics worthy of a 20 year old.
There is nothing profound in the plot, but the actors play it with style and wit, and it seems almost no one lacks a wit; so the story has enjoyable twists and turns, the dialog is both crisp and interesting for the words that have gone out of style, the characters are differentiated, if not necessarily memorable.
You may not remember this half an hour after fin, but while you’re watching, you’ll be amused by it. Especially if you, too, are suffering from a head cold.
And all this notwithstanding possibly the worst cinematic fist fight I’ve ever seen, which led my Artistic Editor to exclaim, “What, don’t they have elbows?”
