THE ROARING TWENTIES: 4K UHD Blu-ray (Warner Bros., 1939) Criterion

Raoul Walsh’s The Roaring Twenties is just one of those seminal movies to emerge from 1939 – unequivocally still the greatest year for American movies - period! It’s a ripped-from-the-headlines sort of crime/thriller that Warner Bros. was duly noted for pumping out on mass just prior to the introduction of Hollywood’s self-governing production code of censorship in 1933, and to effectively bring the studio’s verve for hard-edged and gritty realism to a screeching halt by mid-decade.  All, however, was not lost, as the studio found more creative ways of sidestepping the code to suit their own ends. The Roaring Twenties is the beneficiary of this ingenious skirting, and it stars James Cagney, on whose diminutive physical stature, a dynamo was bed-rocked into the cornerstone of the studio’s brick and mortar. That Cagney somehow managed to survive the code’s mid-thirties’ purge of sin and corruption, as well as the studio’s more concerted push to make ‘wholesomeness’ a byproduct is a testament, not only to Cagney’s quintessence as the consummate chameleon, but also just how clever studio head, Jack L. Warner was at reformulating the crime/actioner to conform to these ‘new house rules.’ Viewed today, it is impossible not to consider The Roaring Twenties as a loving valentine to that Warner legacy, given rise to a formidable rogue’s gallery of gangland hoods throughout the early sound era.

The Roaring Twenties is also notable as a farewell to Humphrey Bogart’s indentured servitude as the studio’s most-relished, though as easily earmarked, disposable baddie. Bogart, who had begun his tenure on the American stage with higher hopes as an attractive male ingenue, was to see his biggest success playing the ruthless gangster, Duke Mantee in The Petrified Forest – a role he would reprise in Warner’s 1936 movie version, thereafter, to quickly cement his reputation as the studio’s go-to gruff grifter, destined to take a fatal bullet before the final fade out. Bogart’s renaissance as the studio’s leading man would take a few more years to ferment after The Roaring Twenties. Even so, this movie puts a definite period to his exploitation as their gat-toting gangland thug.

The picture was the brainchild of Jerry Wald who, along with Richard Macaulay and Robert Rossen coauthored it from a short story by Mark Hellinger – a columnist come screenwriter in his own right. In a few short years, both Wald and Rossen would graduate to producing. The Roaring Twenties is also the last film in which Cagney and Bogart appear together. Interestingly, the picture reflects upon the faded Prohibition era with a quaint nostalgia, while subliminally referencing the careworn steadfastness of the ‘then’ present-age Great Depression, and perhaps, even to hark to mounting national anxieties over another world war already looming large on the horizon. But Walsh takes a decidedly tongue-in-cheek approach to the life of a bootlegger, perhaps necessary to skirt around the code, while the more dramatic elements reflect an advancing sobriety that lays waste to men who live and love too hard to last, especially in a reckless/feckless society having cheapened and commodified their self-worth before relegating it to history’s scrapheap.

Hellinger’s story begins with tyro, Eddie Bartlett (Cagney) bumbling his way into a blown-out crater during WWI.  Bartlett starts out an ethical man in a world that does not value righteousness for its own sake. And thus, a con with a conscience is born, the picture’s premise perilously revolving around a guy whose moral imperative is at odds with his newly embraced criminal class public persona. Bartlett’s descent into ambiguity is assured after an unlikely alliance with fellow doughboys, George Hally (a belligerent Bogart) and Lloyd Hart (Jeffrey Lynn). Each will come to represent Bartlett’s own struggle to survive the good/evil continuum on the outside, after the war. Hart represents the good. He becomes a district attorney, as well as Bartlett’s lawyer.  Although clearly to point to a way out for Bartlett’s waning sense of self-preservation and humanity, even Hart teeters precariously on the edge of this intoxicating hedonism Bartlett and Hally have embraced; Hart’s own moral compass, momentarily tested, then skewed towards canonization into sainthood. Similarly, the two gals who rival for Bartlett’s affections – Pricilla Lane’s sweet Polly-Purebred, Jean Sherman, and Gladys George’s questionably tart, Panama Smith cover two sides of that sovereign coin known as womanhood.

Walsh’s direction anticipates the darkly purposed purgation of rank toxicity brewing between Barlett and Hally. It all but carouses in the contingencies of their uncertain derailment, keeping the picture’s momentum vigorous, yet vague. Bartlett may survive his reckoning. Hally…not so much. It’s the fracturing of this immoral equivalency that casts the deciding vote. Despite the movie’s tacked on ‘crime doesn’t pay’ message, inserted here merely to placate the Breen office into giving The Roaring Twenties a pass, it is the ambiguity Bartlett so eloquently summarizes near the end, about a certain element in western culture always tempted by the quick n’ dirty route to fame and excess, that stirs truer to the métier of this masterpiece. Raoul Walsh cannot take credit for inventing the studio’s in-house gritty gangland gracelessness. But he can certainly lay claim to have graduated its inklings into an absorbing summit. The Roaring Twenties is the penultimate crime/drama in a storied studio history of enviable classics yet to follow it, though steadily thereafter to morph away from empathy for the criminal class.

We begin this journey, rather appropriately in a foxhole: soldier Eddie Bartlett, takes a tumbling where fellow fighters, George Hally and Lloyd Hart have taken cover. The men forge an alliance for survival, and, at war's end, embark upon careers to pit their individual moralities against each other. Lloyd starts his law practice. George becomes a bootlegger. Eddie drives a taxi. While unknowingly delivering booze to Panama Smith, Eddie gets arrested. Panama is acquitted, takes pity on Eddie, and brings him into her bootlegging biz. Sufficiently jaded by the justice system, Eddie transforms his taxi service into a lucrative delivery service and hires Lloyd to handle his legal issues. Eddie is also reunited with Jean Sherman, the gal he loved while abroad, but whom he now gets Panama to hire as a singer at her club. Eddie would like to marry Jean. However, realizing Eddie has no real future, Jean begins to fall for Lloyd instead.

Eddie hijacks a shipment slated for rival bootlegger, Nick Brown (Paul Kelly). George proposes they bring Nick in as a partner. To this end, Eddie tips off the authorities about Nick’s stash, and once it is confiscated, he and George steal it back as leverage to forge their new partnership. Alas, George recognizes one of the watchmen as his former sergeant (Joseph Sawyer) and ruthlessly murders him. Lloyd cuts all ties with George, who then threatens to kill him if he informs. Prosperous beyond his wildest dreams, Eddie believes he can negotiate with Nick, sending his pal, Danny Green (Frank McHugh) to arrange for a truce. But a short while later, Danny's bludgeoned remains are dumped on the steps of Panama's club. Determined to avenge this murder, Eddie sets a trap for Nick. However, resentful of Eddie's prosperity, George tips off Nick, hoping one will kill the other, thus allowing him to step into the void as the sole force of reckoning. In the ensuing hailstorm of bullets, Eddie does kill Brown. But he is nobody’s fool and now suspects George, dissolving their partnership shortly thereafter.

Learning Jean is in love with Lloyd, Eddie is also faced with financial ruin after the stock market crashes. Eddie is forced to sell off everything to George, including his cab company. George menacingly leaves Eddie with one taxi, suggesting he will never be anything better than a cab driver. Time passes. But it cannot heal old wounds, especially when Jean inadvertently hails a taxi and Eddie pulls alongside the curb. He learns Jean and Lloyd have since wed and have a young son. Embittered by this encounter, Eddie turns to strong drink to medicate his depression. Meanwhile, George is plotting to have Lloyd murdered for investigating him. Jean appeals to Eddie for help. While resisting at first, Eddie does make a half-hearted attempt to get George to back off. The plan backfires when George instead decides to murder Eddie for trying to help. But George is no match for Eddie, who guns him down instead. Fleeing the scene, Eddie is likewise executed by one of George’s thugs. As he dies on the steps of a nearby church, Eddie is taken into Panama’s arms. “He used to be a big shot,” she quietly declares.

As an epitaph to Warner’s time-honored in-house chic, The Roaring Twenties also puts the proverbial nail in its coffin. If anything, this movie marks the ‘changing of the guard’. In truth, the studio had already migrated away from being considered the rough-n’-tumble scrapper where hardnosed guys and brash gals cavorted in sin and decadence. By mid-decade, Warner Bros. had already become the home of Errol Flynn swashbucklers, Busby Berkeley musicals and Bette Davis melodramas. The artistic milieu, while having morphed, had hardly softened. Inevitably, Cagney and Bogart had to move on with the times, each evolving a very different screen persona in the next decade that would carry their respective careers over the limiting threshold as being considered only for playing tough guys in a pinch. Interesting to think of what might have become of either actor had The Maltese Falcon (1941) and Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) not intervened at precisely this moment in their respective careers. But Warner Bros. saw to it that two of their most valuable players made this transition, seemingly effortless, and, to remain steadfast and highly marketable commodities, churning out the good stuff for years to come.

Warner Bros. has farmed out The Roaring Twenties to Criterion for a native 4K/Blu-ray combo release that is marvelous beyond all expectations. To be clear, it's Warner Home Video's mastering apparatus that has done the real 'heavy lifting' here. Image quality is of such a pristine nature, it appears to have been sourced from an immaculately curated 35mm OCN. Ernest Haller’s sublime B&W cinematography truly comes to the forefront. Grayscale tonality is mind-bogglingly nuanced. Overall clarity is shockingly crisp without any untoward application of artificial enhancements. Grain looks gorgeous. Blacks are deep and velvety. Whites are clean and bright, though never blooming. It’s a stunningly handsome visual presentation, matched by a startling sonic resonance in the 2.0 DTS mono soundtrack. Ray Heindorf and Heinz Roemheld’s orchestrations deliver a bombast previously unheard, and, dialogue is rendered with remarkable crispness. For a Criterion release, extras are pretty scant, and confined to the Blu-ray. These include an audio commentary from historian, Lincoln Hurst (ported over from Warner’s own DVD release from 2001), plus a new interview from critic, Gary Giddins, a 1973 interview with director, Raoul Walsh, a trailer, and a booklet essay by Mark Asch. Yeah…that’s it! While I could poo-poo Criterion for not producing more original content to augment this great movie, it’s the quality of the movie’s presentation that counts. And this in unimpeachable. Very highly recommended!

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

5

VIDEO/AUDIO

5+

EXTRAS

1.5