Favorites :: Character Spotlight :: When Nerves of Steele Fatigue and Finally Snap in William Wellman's The Story of G.I. Joe (1945)

There's a moment in George Clooney's The Monuments Men (2014), a World War II tale of a special squad efforting to preserve and rescue what's left of Europe's art treasures from the plundering Nazis, where Bill Murray and Bob Balaban's characters are stuck in the Ardennes at Christmas time. And as the Battle of the Bulge rumbles all around them, Murray receives a recording from home, alas, with no way to listen to it. His friend comes through, though, playing the record over the PA system for the whole encampment to hear. I admit, I teared up a bit during this scene, as Murray's daughter's Christmas Carol echoed through the woods and the ears of those so far away from home, but, I know I was also crying a bit for the stirred up memories of Sgt. Warnicki from William Wellman's The Story of G.I. Joe (1945), too, who also received a similar record, which holds the voice of his infant son whom he's never heard speak.

On the surface, The Story of G.I. Joe is an autobiographical look at famed war correspondent, Ernie Pyle. But just like with his books and essays, the film is not about Pyle, per see, but about Pyle serving as a witness to those men fighting the good fight -- not the where and the why, necessarily, but the frustrations and the 'hurry up and waiting' punctuated by sudden and terrible outbursts of violence and terror of the who. Here, the reporter follows one particular outfit from their disastrous baptism of fire at the Kasserine Pass in North Africa to the invasion of Italy that is loosely based on his Pulitzer Prize winning piece on the death of Captain Waskow and the impact it had on his men. 

Burgess Meridith is just great as the lyrical Pyle, who tries to personalize and put a face on the 'gravel agitators' in his columns for those back home; as is Robert Mitchum as the rapidly promoted Captain Walker. But the film is stolen out from under them both by Freddie Steele's Sgt. Warnicki and his quest for a working phonograph, whose comical build up leaves the viewer a bit unprepared for the truly brutal and heart-rending climax of this plot thread at the foot of Monte Cassino, where he finally gets it working, hears his son's greeting, and the months of accumulated fatigue and grueling combat finally pushes one man over the edge. 

The resulting dust-up as his comrades try to contain him from taking the hill by himself proves just as harrowing, with Warnicki beaten into the mud, a reverse-engineered take on civilization as he devolves back into the ooze that sprung us all. Kudos to Steele for pulling off the detonation of this emotional time-bomb so effectively, which is even more amazing when you consider he wasn't even an actor.

Born Frederick Earle Burgett, at the age of 14, Steele took up boxing as a profession and, after a decade of bouts, 'The Tacoma Thumper' was recognized as the middle-weight champion of the world from 1936-1938, compiling a record of 125-5, knocking out almost half of his opponents in the process. Steele's fighting career came to a premature end due to a series of auto accidents and other accumulated injuries and health issues. However, his celebrity status in the ring found him mixing in several Hollywood circles as well -- most notably, John Wayne's.

Known for his hard-hitting and fast footwork, Steele broke into showbiz when his feet doubled for Errol Flynn's in the fight scenes for Raoul Walsh's Gentlemen Jim (1942). Several bit parts followed, including a few for Preston Sturges, who gave him his first credited role in Hail the Conquering Hero (1944). He was absolutely hilarious in that, but Steele seemingly got his big break with Wellman's World War II epic as the hickish, tobacco-spitting, and tough of as nails, Warnicki. He bore the facade of a simpleton, with unsuspected depth, character and courage. Mitchum's Walker might've been the brains of the outfit, but Warnicki was the glue. And it should be noted that it was his mental collapse that rallies the outfit long enough to achieve the victory that had been eluding them for weeks.

It's amazing stuff that might've been fumbled in some other hands -- and it almost was. Remember, Wellman was a pilot who served in the Air-Corps during World War I and he hated the infantry, and therefore, refused all overtures from producer Lester Cowan flat until he spent some time with Pyle and learned how much the G.I.s truly revered him. (Pyle was so influential he campaigned for and succeeded in getting Congress to authorize extra combat pay for those serving in the front lines.) The only other non-combatant similarly adored was cartoonist Bill Mauldin, another Pulitzer winner, whose Willy and Joe strips were quite popular for their honesty, irreverence, and the resulting ire drawn from the brass for the same (-- scenes and scenarios which were pilfered mercilessly for this film). And to add even more authenticity, the army allowed United Artists the use of many veterans from North Africa, Sicily, and the Italian campaigns as extras as they were transferred to the Pacific theater of operations. Sadly, most of these men were later killed in action on Okinawa, including Pyle, who was killed not long after the film wrapped. His last words were asking another soldier if he was okay before a bullet struck him down.

Along with his books and columns, The Story of G.I. Joe makes for a fine memorial for Pyle. It also served as Mitchum's big breakthrough movie, landing him his only Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor. He lost to James Dunn for A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I've seen them both. Loved them both. But, Mitchum was robbed. And frankly, Steele was better than both of them that year anyway.

Alas, unlike Mitchum, this breakout performance did little to advance Steele's acting career. His piercing eyes and chiseled features were offset by a flattened nose that resulted in a nasally, almost cartoonish rasp of a voice that would've never allowed him leading man status; but the potential for a rock-solid character actor was there, evidenced by a couple of memorable performances in albeit minor roles. I especially liked him as the failed voice of reason for Raymond Burr's gang of hoods in Desperate (1947) and as part of a remarkable one-two punch combo as the muscle for bad guy Peter Lorre in The Black Angel (1946). His last film was Lewis Selier's steamy film noir, Whiplash (1948). After which, he gave up on acting and moved back home to Washington, where he opened a saloon in Westport with his wife, Helen, which they ran together until he suffered a debilitating stroke in 1980. Steele passed away four years later.

Perhaps it was just the right role molded for just the right person, but Sgt. Warnicki is one of my favorite characters from my second favorite war film -- the favorite being Wellman's Battleground; a truly great film in the same vein, who also saw one of its character actors robbed of an Oscar statuette. (All apologies to Dean Jaeger, but James Whitmore was ah-mazing as Sgt. Kinnie.) No matter what picture or genre, Wellman always had a thing for camaraderie, making this genre almost tailor made for his sensibilities. Like Pyle, he was less interested about why they were fighting but who was doing the fighting and the dynamics of who you were fighting with. Rousing, inspiring, heart-wrenching, and perhaps most important of all, credible, which guys like Freddie Steele brought to the table in spades. And I can't recommend his performance and this film enough.

Other Points of Interest:

Newspaper ads for The Story of G.I. Joe at the Morgue. 

The Story of G.I. Joe (1945) Lester Cowan Productions :: United Artists / P: Lester Cowan / AP: David Hall / D: William A. Wellman / W: Leopold Atlas, Guy Endore, Philip Stevenson, Ben Bengal, Ernie Pyle (novels) / C: Russell Metty / E: Albrecht Joseph / M: Louis Applebaum, Ann Ronell / S: Burgess Meredith, Robert Mitchum, Freddie Steele, Wally Cassell, Jimmy Lloyd

The Barbara Stanwyck Blogathon :: Girls and Gags, Music, Mayhem and Murder with William Wellman's Lady of Burlesque (1943)

Our feature begins long after the opening curtain has arisen for the evening show at the old Opera House, where the viewer promptly gets a front row seat for the current act; and after combining the skimpy outfits with the wild gesticulating by the all-girl chorus it doesn't take a viewer long (-- if the title hadn't already given it away, 'natch --) to realize S.B. Foss, owner and proprietor, is running a burlesque show. But the action really doesn't begin until we move backstage and into the overcrowded dressing rooms, where this well-oiled machine of a company is slipping a few gears as the following acts fritter and frack around, preparing to go on stage next.

Tonight is also the premiere of Foss' new headlining act, Dixie Daisy (Stanwyck), who must avoid the claws of a few demoted co-stars and the romantic overtures of one of the stock comedians, Biff Brannigan (O'Shea). And as several more rancorous subplots and volatile, three-cornered love affairs reveal themselves backstage, Daisy takes the front stage by storm and knocks 'em dead with a sultry rendition of her signature song, "Take Away the E-String, Play it On the G-String." But the evening quickly unravels during a later number, a comedic sketch with Biff and Daisy, when the police raid the theater. Now normally, when a raid is sniffed out, a warning light is flashed backstage so the players can evacuate without getting pinched, but this alarm failed due to sabotage. And during the resultant melee, once the cops make their move and everyone scatters for the nearest exit, Daisy is caught alone in the darkened basement, where someone reaches out of the shadows, seizes her by the throat, and tries to strangle her...

Not quite noir, not quite a comedy, and not quite a musical, but more of a musical comedy noir, the wild and rambunctious Lady of Burlesque is based on an even wilder and more rambunctious mystery novel written by the famed ecdysiast, Gypsy Rose Lee. Born Ellen Hovick in 1911, the author began her showbiz career as a dancer in vaudeville until she realized there was much more money to be made in burlesque, where, after adopting her stage-name, she did just that, revolutionizing the striptease by emphasizing more on the tease and acid-tongued quipping than the actual stripping. Still, at the time, you could only take so much off before you got arrested. And after a successful four year run at Minsky's Burlesque Theater in New York, where she was frequently arrested in many a vice raid, Lee went legit and gave Hollywood a shot in 1937 but her movie career quickly floundered. Undaunted, in 1941, Lee put pen to paper and wrote The G-String Murders, a semi-autobiographical whiz-banger of a whodunit that took place backstage at a burlesque theater, with Lee serving as the de facto narratrix to help the reader navigate through these uncharted literary waters.

Gypsy Rose Lee

Over the years since its publication, many have contended that Lee's book was ghost-written by Craig Rice -- a/k/a Georgiana Ann Craig, who was gaining notoriety for her John J. Malone mysteries at the same time, which combined the usual hard-boiled knocks with some overtly comedic overtones, resulting in something totally surreal (and, according to most reports, highly gruesome). But, this controversy appears to have been quelled lately, with corroborating evidence in the form of correspondence between Lee, Craig, her roommate at the time, and George Davis, an editor for Harper's Weekly, which shows the majority of the story came from Lee with a few suggestions and touch-ups coming from the others.

Hunt Stromberg, meanwhile, was MGM's golden boy producer, who had successfully imported Greta Garbo, oversaw all of Jean Harlow's films, made a star out of Joan Crawford, and who also brought together Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald for their musical extravaganzas and paid William Powell and Myrna Loy's bar tab for the entire Thin Man franchise. But, by 1941, things had soured so badly between Stromberg and Louis B. Mayer the movie mogul let him walk away from an insanely lucrative contract to try his hand as an independent producer. Quickly snatched up by the Society of Independent Motion Picture Producers (-- later morphing into United Artists), Stromberg tapped Lee's novel to be his first feature post-MGM. Most insiders found this to be an insane notion, and, speaking frankly, with the novel's more, well ... saucier elements, I don't think this is something Stromberg could have even attempted at any of the major studios. Even without those restrictions, James Gunn's script had to subvert many of the novels bumps-n-grinds to get it past the censors. And to his credit, Gunn still managed to sneak quite a bit past Joseph Breen and his hatchet men.

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"And the next time you girls pull a free-for-all, don’t pull it during my act. Y’know, it’s tough enough doing something artistic for those lugs out there without you and Dolly calling each other by your rightful names!"

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One of Gunn's alterations was changing the protagonist from Gypsy Lee to Dixie Daisy. And to fill that g-string, Barbara Stanwyck does an amazing job of bringing the heat and the snark -- and she looks absolutely fabulous in those Edith Head designed dresses slit to her nether regions. And when she's dancing, evidenced by her dance-off with co-star Pinky Lee, the star absolutely excels. As for her singing, evidenced here and in Howard Hawks' Ball of Fire, well, even though Stanwyck lacked the chops of a classical singer her performance definitely grows on you. It's kinda like Ida Lupino's lounge act in Road House (1948); at first encounter, it sounds kinda shaky and teetering toward not very good; but with each passing verse, as both starlets make the song their own, all doubts are soon flushed. A minor quibble, anyway, because the rest of the package drops a payload that easily obliterates any and all concerns.

Speaking of obliterating, as good as Ms. Stanwyck is, the film is nearly stolen out form under her by co-star, Michael O'Shea. O'Shea was a revelation to me, here. I had only seen his work once before, as the grizzled First Sergeant who gets stuck in the frozen mine-field in Sam Fuller's Korean War actioneer, Fixed Bayonets; and I didn't even realize it was the same guy until checking out his credits. Here, he's hysterical as the swifty comedian and Daisy's punching bag; and the screen just crackles when Biff and Daisy trade barbs and rebukes, clobbering each other over the head with one loaded double-entendre after another as the bodies keep piling up around them.

See, Daisy is initially saved by the timely arrival of a police matron, who scared the killer off. Unsure if the villain was really after her, it was dark after all, and, when combining the events with the sabotage on the early warning system, Daisy suspects that someone was just trying to scare her off in an effort to shut the show down. But this theory takes a backseat when Lolita Laverne (Faust) is caught canoodling with the show's straight-man (Fenton) and has a horrid dust-up with her heel of boyfriend (Mohr), a gangster saloon keeper; an altercation so violent the act on stage has to switch to a song to try and drown it out (-- one of the film's best handled scenes). And when Laverne turns up dead, strangled by her own g-string, a lot of the physical evidence points to Daisy being the killer.

Biff, of course, does his best to throw suspicion elsewhere to save his girl, but winds up in trouble, himself, when the missing murder weapon is found planted in his pocket. And as a wily police inspector (Dingle) tries to sort through all the suspects and motives, things take a more sinister turn when another stripper, Princess Noveena (Bachelor), the least-popular person in the whole show, winds up dead, too, strangled in the exact same fashion.

Before any more bodies turn up, the show is officially shut down. And while a nervous Dixie feels like a loose end that needs to be knotted-off, together with Biff, these amateur sleuths unravel a mystery plot that I don't think even Raymond Chandler could have cooked up on his worst three-day bender:

Turns out the first victim was killed twice, first with poison and then strangled. The first victim also knew Noveena's secret; a secret that allowed her to blackmail Foss (Bromberg) into making her into the new headliner. The first victim had also withdrawn a large sum of money before she died. Money that wound up in the straight-man's pocket. Despite all of this damning evidence, all the physical clues still point to Daisy as the murderer of both women. But who really done it? The jealous ex-boyfriend? The straight-man? The straight-man's estranged wife? The black-mailed boss? And don't discount any of the seedier backstage hands, holdovers from the theater's golden age, whose disdain for burlesque performers is palpable. Or perhaps Daisy was right in the first place: Maybe the motive for the killing is to simply stop the show? Who benefits then? Or maybe, it's a combination of all of the above...

Even though everyone scoffed at Stromberg's folly, Lady of Burlesque went over very well with audiences in 1943 and raked it in at the box-office. Behind the camera, Stromberg brought William Wellman with him from MGM. 'Wild Bill' Wellman was a pretty ideal choice to direct this picture, I think, because he always gave his leading ladies free rein to dump the debutante trappings and be their natural, rough-talking selves. (See also Westward the Women.) Wellman was always good with the concept of camaraderie in his war pictures, where every person -- the wiseass, the newbie, the yokel, the asshole etc. -- were all vital in making the squad tick; and the same holds true when he's dealing with dancers and strippers and comedians. However, Lady of Burlesque kinda falls flat during the musical numbers, where the director's usually fluid style turns way too static, with lots of long shots, as if to make the audience part of the onscreen theater audience -- an experiment that ultimately backfires, but it was part of his overall theme. (More on that in a sec.) This is remedied, somewhat, by inserts of shots from the side-stages, where we see the act in the background or foreground framed with more frantic behind the scenes action to break up the monotony.

Luckily, the film really isn't about the show itself, or even the murders, really, but the thunder and chaos of what happens backstage and the interaction of the players to make the show work four times a day. (It's like a combination of the Keystone Cops and The Muppet Show.) Here, Wellman excels, too, where his usual, voyeuristic key-hole camera really doesn't feel like we're spying on the proceedings but are part of the proceedings, giving you a sense of total immersion; and so, yes, even making the audience part of this overall camaraderie.

And if you'd like to find out whoreallydunit, Lady of Burlesque is in the public domain and available for free on many streaming services or dirt-cheap on a number of DVDs, which is too much of a good thing because a flick with this kind of pedigree, with such a full frontal boom-boom performance by Stanwyck, deserves the full restoration treatment. Regardless of how bad a print you find, stick it out. You're in for a real crackerjack of a mystery musical comedy whodunit with lots and lots of mayhem and eye-candy to sway anyone's cinematic sweet-tooth.

Other Points of Interest:

The poster campaign for Lady of Burlesque at the Archive.

This post is part of the opening salvo of a week long birthday tribute to Barbara Stanwyck for The Girl with the White Parasol's Barbara Stanwyck Blogathon, and I encourage you all to click on over and read the other, well worth your while entries, please and thank you!

Lady of Burlesque (1943) Hunt Stromberg Productions :: United Artists / P: Hunt Stromberg / D: William A. Wellman / W: James Gunn, Gypsy Rose Lee (novel) / C: Robert De Grasse / E: James E. Newcom / M: Arthur Lange / S: Barbara Stanwyck, Michael O'Shea, Charles Dingle, J. Edward Bromberg, Victoria Faust, Frank Fenton, Stephanie Bachelor, Gerald Mohr

Schary's Folly Anything But :: A (Rather Long-Winded) Beer-Gut Reaction to William Wellman's Battleground (1950)

This review has been officially rehashed. 

And you can read it right here.