This isn’t going to do any of our careers any good. Here, drink this poisoned tea, it’ll lift your spirits.
The Gorilla (1939) starts off nicely enough as reports of murder and mayhem committed by man and gorilla crowd the local newspapers, and Stevens, who must do something lucrative but we don’t know what, receives a threatening phone call, followed by a note pinned to a maid’s collar as she reads Shakespeare to herself in bed by someone with a very hairy arm: Stevens will die soon.
But then he hires three detectives, and the plot takes a swirl down the ol’ toilet bowl as they turn out to be Marx Brothers wannabes. Stevens’ niece shows up, fiancee in tow, and she’s the heir to … something. The imperturbable butler (Bela Lugosi) must be responsible for something, lurking like that and appearing to become invisible, yeah? And who’s this dude demanding money, and the other with the badge and suave smile?
It’s all painfully incoherent, and while I liked the maid – she’s given the zingers – she’s not enough to save a story that depends on magic and the audience’s inability to keep track of all the plot holes.
Blech.
