In The Cheaters (1945) is a weird collage of a movie, with characters ranging from interesting to repulsive. A family thought to be well-off is in trouble, but only the arrogant father knows about it; his wife is an insipid refugee from The Wizard of Oz (think of the munchkins), one daughter a narcissistic brat, the other desperate to impress the well-off family of her fiancee’, who in turn never has to comb his hair as the cardboard he’s constructed of has a permanent part; the son is a young predatory shark; and the ridiculously large staff marches about with the traditional clothespin on their collective noses.
Why? Oh, not just the usual. This is a family of appearances, and so even as the financial tide threatens to drag them out to sea, daughter #2 (the one with a fiancee’ to impress) decides they should take in a “charity case” for Christmas, calling it a tradition of the family. Who it might be is unimportant, only that he be listed in the paper and appear under the random finger of the daughter, and thus “Mr. M”, aka Mr. Marchand, a crippled former actor who must meet his fortunes with an upper lip stiffened with spirits, is taken, temporarily, into the family.
But the riptide is coming. A lifeline appears – Uncle Henry has died, and with $5 million to will to them – if his lawyer cannot find Florence Watson, a child actor whom old Uncle Henry admired and, briefly, corresponded with. A quick call from the arrogant father, an unscrupulous but wary barrister, and perhaps their future is secured – if Miss Watson does not appear to claim her fortune within a week, it’s all to the family’s account. But, like money-grubbers, they worry, and scheme….
And find Miss Watson. Through the charm of Mr. Marchand, who offers minor diversions, observations, and a mystery or two of his own, Miss Watson becomes a cousin of the family, welcomed for the Christmas season.
And it goes on, keeping news of her imminent good fortune from her. Mr. Marchand’s spirit hobby grows, the family finds dueling with Miss Watson to be a chore, and suddenly –
They’re in the country! The Ghost of Marley stalks the hills and valleys of the snowy, bucolic country side, and now we can all see where this is going. Not that it’s not admirable, but it feels a bit forced, if you know what I mean. Mr. Marchand continues his stint as the most interesting of the characters, and if his burden is nothing more than the rejection of directors, producers, and audiences, perhaps this is understandable.
In all, a movie that suffers from a cast mostly too large and too undefined, it has a certain charm, but is best watched when one can barely bestir oneself from the chair to fetch the eggnog. True, there’s a lesson here, and perhaps it benefits from a retelling, a reminder to those who chase material wealth with an avidity repulsive to more spiritual people (whatever that phrase may mean), but the journey is long and hard, the attention may waver, and if you have mail to sort through – do it while watching this.
