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“…Lubitsch’s precise, highly stylized direction of actors, his genius for concentrating the maximum amount of narrative information in a few carefully chosen shots and symbolic details, his masterful sense of ellipsis (presenting only the most important story points and leaving the rest to the viewer’s imagination) — all these devices and more had emerged during Lubitsch’s silent-film period, and by 1929 had already been enshrined as “the Lubitsch touch.”

But Lubitsch wasn’t content to let things stand, not when faced with the transformative technical advance represented by sound. Where so many of the early musicals are simply passive records of already established stage hits (like RKO’s 1929 “Rio Rita”) or strung-together highlights that showcase a studio’s stars in various production numbers (like Warner Brothers’ “Show of Shows,” also 1929), the Lubitsch films are full-fledged book musicals that integrate their songs into their plots and frequently move, operetta style, from spoken dialogue to recitative to full musical performances. They are light, fluid and graceful at a time when the heavy apparatus of the talkies was threatening to render movies flat and stagebound.

For reviewers at the time, these movies were buoyant, witty and casual in a way the plodding stage adaptations were not. Less remarked upon then but more important in the development of the medium was Lubitsch’s innovative way of using sound.

For Lubitsch the new medium wasn’t just for recording dialogue but also for bringing out the musicality contained in sound effects. (See in “Monte Carlo” how the chugging of a train engine slips into the rhythm of “Beyond the Blue Horizon,” sung by Jeanette MacDonald.) He uses sound to suggest whole realms of off-screen space unavailable to the silent film, employing sound cues as a way of replacing dialogue (like the trumpet call in “The Smiling Lieutenant”), much as he would use visual cues to replace entire sequences of dramatic action.

Their formal and historical importance aside, these films remain marvelously adult entertainments, at ease with human desire (and its inevitable conflicts with the institution of marriage) in ways that movies of our own time either ignore or trivialize into crude physical comedy. Lubitsch’s coquettishly liberated women (Jeanette MacDonald in three of the four films here; Claudette Colbert in the fourth, “The Smiling Lieutenant”) unabashedly enjoy sex as much as their rakish mates (Maurice Chevalier in three; Jack Buchanan, a gifted but now forgotten British musical star, in “Monte Carlo”).

In “One Hour With You,” the last of Lubitsch’s musicals for Paramount (he would make one more, perhaps his greatest, for MGM: the 1934 version of “The Merry Widow”), the Chevalier character, a happily married (to MacDonald) Parisian doctor, eventually gives in, despite his better instincts, to the sexual blandishments of his wife’s best friend (Genevieve Tobin). They spend a late night together, during which, Lubitsch clearly indicates, they enjoy a sexual dalliance — for which MacDonald smilingly forgives him at the film’s conclusion. Attitudes like this would disappear with the enforcement of the Production Code in 1934, seldom to return to American movies again.”

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This DVD collection is now available, order at this link.

From DVD Talk Review:

The Movie:
One of the very few directors of the Golden Age who got his name above the title, Ernst Lubitsch is renowned for his sophistication, elegance, and especially in his pre-Code work, playful bawdiness. All of these elements come into play in these early pieces, which also happen to be brilliant first flowerings of an idiom that would become a paradigm of American film: the musical. If your knowledge of Lubitsch is limited to his later sparkling comedies like To Be or Not To Be or The Shop Around the Corner (which, interestingly, was musicalized in 1949 as the film In the Good Old Summertime and then again years later for Broadway as what many think is Bock and Harnick’s finest work, She Loves Me), you may be in for a bit of a shock with these four films, but a pleasant shock nonetheless.

It may surprise some to discover that Lubitsch was at the forefront of those developing the film musical. His sophisticated dialogue and frequently subversive plot elements don’t seem to be the stuff that fluffy musical comedies are made of, and yet these disparate elements combine surprisingly spryly in these early talkies made between 1929-1932. While all four of the films really resemble operettas more than musicals due to their quasi-light classical musical styles and romanticized European settings, they have a particularly modern sensibility that belies their relative ages and makes them seem more au courant than a lot of the tripe being peddled by studios currently.

The Love Parade, made in 1929, was Lubitsch’s first talkie, and while it is sometimes stilted and in some ways the most dated of the four features in this set (especially with regard to its sentiments vis a vis the proper roles of men and women), it has its share of great Lubitschian moments, most of course spun around that eternal war between the sexes. The film follows the exploits of a lothario diplomat Count portrayed by a charming Maurice Chevalier who returns, after some disastrous affairs in Paris, to his homeland of Sylvania, where he quickly falls in love with his Queen, played by Jeanette MacDonald in her first film role. The Love Parade is full of those throwaway witticisms for which Lubitsch is justly famous. When the Queen’s ministers bemoan the fact that they can’t find a husband for her since a husband would have nothing to do, they pause for a moment, consult among themselves, and then Lubitsch regular Eugene Pallette steps forward and amends (with no leer, but with his meaning perfectly clear), “Well, of course, he’d have something to do,” as MacDonald looks up with a hilariously knowing coquettish, yet slyly innocent, gaze. Once the marriage is a done deal, the film moves into a fairly standard, though nimbly handled, device of Chevalier becoming increasingly disillusioned as he realizes that the Queen is the one wearing the crown (if not the pants) of the family. After some sparring and a few plot machinations, there’s little doubt that a happy ending is fated.

The Love Parade‘s score, by early film stalwart Victor Schertzinger, is a Sigmund Romberg clone with soaring melodies for MacDonald (who perhaps because of early recording deficiencies sounds a bit strident at times and is difficult to decipher, especially in her stratospheric sections) and clever patter songs for Chevalier. Do I dare say that perhaps none other than Stephen Sondheim may have seen this film at one time and gotten his inspiration for “Someone is Waiting” from his musical Company from the sweet duet that Chevalier and MacDonald sing where he starts each phrase with a particular quality that he loves of various women and she finishes it by providing the names of those women?

While the film is hampered somewhat by the technical challenges of early talkies (let alone musicals), with largely static midrange shots, Lubitsch does manage to sneak in a couple of quick dollies and even some overhead shots to liven up the visual presentation. But the film is most truly Lubitschian in the sparkling interplay between MacDonald and Chevalier (despite Chevalier’s broadness, which he frequently plays directly to the “audience,” breaking the filmic fourth wall), with its inherent sweetness never really tarnished by the frequent double entendres and slightly racy occasional subject matter.

Overall Grade: 3.0

1930’s Monte Carlo is apt, like The Love Parade, to raise the ire of ardent feminists who may find offense in the film’s thesis that a strong-minded, independent woman must be “tamed” to find true happiness. That caveat aside, Monte Carlo boasts a better score than the first film (including the standard “Beyond the Blue Horizon”), a better performance by MacDonald and a somewhat less cartoonish leading man in British music hall legend Jack Buchanan. The film also shows some really amazing advances in film technique for this still nascent medium, with the aforementioned “Horizon” number a superb case in point. Instead of a relatively static presentation of MacDonald singing in her train compartment, Lubitsch realizes the filmic potential for a song about the great “out there” and wonderfully opens up the segment by intercutting beautiful traveling shots of the countryside. It’s important to note the thought behind this sort of approach–while the still developing technology didn’t allow for much creativity in filming the actual singers performing their material, there was nothing to stop a genius like Lubitsch from cutting away from the singer to expand the visuals, and it’s just that kind of literal “outside the box” thinking that sets Lubitsch apart from some of the more mundane musical directors of the early talkie era. The fact is he does himself one better in the “Horizon” reprise capping the film, where he adds the sounds of the locomotive in synch with the song itself.

Where the film comes up a bit short is in the substandard plot, a very slight affair involving MacDonald as a runaway bride to be, escaping the foppish Claude Allister, who responds with a hilarious, if completely politically incorrect, song about beating MacDonald into submission should he find her again. She ends up in Monte Carlo, of course, where she becomes involved with Buchanan, first as foils and ultimately as lovers. There’s a forced quality to a lot of the dialogue and plot machinations, including a somewhat bizarre focus on hair (which begs the question–how does MacDonald go from waist-long tresses to a bob and back). What the film lacks in subtlety and that typical Lubitsch wit, however, it makes up for in its confident visuals and MacDonald’s engaging performance. Lending able support is ZaSu Pitts as her long suffering maid.

Overall Grade: 2.5

1932’s One Hour With You reunites Chevalier and MacDonald, this time as a married couple. The plot revolves around MacDonald’s best friend, played by Genevieve Tobin, who, despite being married herself, has cast her frequently roving eye on Chevalier. Tobin’s huband, portrayed by Roland Young, is out for a divorce and actually encourages her shenanigans to help his ultimate goal. MacDonald of course is blithely unaware of Tobin’s desires and soon believes that Chevalier is actually chasing another Parisian mademoiselle. Soon Charlie Ruggles appears as an ardent admirer of MacDonald’s and the ensuing misunderstandings escalate to the point where no one is quite sure of who’s chasing whom.

While One Hour With You never rises to the giddy heights of The Smiling Lieutenant, it’s breezy enough with some clever moments interspersed with a slightly more modern musical palette (one not particularly suited to MacDonald’s florid soprano). Once again Chevalier regularly addresses the audience in various asides, and is joined by MacDonald in this device in the film’s final moment. There are several great bits scattered throughout the film (notably MacDonald’s final scene with Ruggles, with Chevalier egging Ruggles on to admit a nonexistent affair with MacDonald), but there’s a certain unevenness in this film, especially considering the fact that it had the potential to be another knockout, that relegates it to second-tier Lubitsch.

Overall Grade: 3.0

The DVD

Video:
Don’t expect reference quality video in these unrestored early films. All four of the films show occasional (and at times more than occasional) damage, with scratches, abrasion and a missing frame or two, resulting in some jump-cuts in both image and soundtrack. The Love Parade has noticeable flicker and Monte Carlo has some oddly out of focus moments early in the film that make me wonder if some scenes were missing from their best print and were blown up from a 16mm version. The Smiling Lieutenant is the relative sharpest of the bunch, with One Hour With You coming in a close second. The films are all eminently watchable as long as their ages are kept in mind. It’s interesting to note that three of the films were made in a day when 1.33:1 was considered widescreen. Therefore, Monte Carlo is 1.20:1, Love Parade and Lieutenant are 1.21:1, with only Hour approximating modern full frame images at 1.36:1.

Sound:
All of the monaural soundtracks are in fine shape, though the recording technologies of the day sound awfully boxy to modern ears. As is mentioned above, MacDonald’s high soprano work especially is quite hard to decipher.

Extras:
As is the case with most of the Eclipse Series, no real extras are offered, though there are some in-depth liner notes on each of the films contained on the inserts.

Final Thoughts:
With the exception of The Smiling Lieutenant, these films may well not be masterpieces, but they are of such great historical value, both in terms of Lubitsch’s oeuvre and film in general, that they should be seen by anyone with even a passing interest in the development of the American film musical. Due to some of the lackluster elements in some of the films discussed above, these just miss my cutoff threshold for DVD Talk Collector Series, and are as highly recommended as they come.

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Harry Knowles runs the very popular Ain’t It Cool News movie website. His audience is largely made up of younger movie-goers. Hence, it’s nice to see his two thumbs up review of the new Lubitsch DVD release:

“One of the most forgotten great directors of the Golden Age of Hollywood amongst today’s younger set is Ernst Lubitsh. One of the greatest directors of any era. Here we have a great collection of his musicals – 3 of the 4 films were nominated for Best Picture. They star the likes of Jeanette MacDonald and Maurice Chevalier and Claudette Colbert – and the musicals are those fantastic melodrama musicals. As usual – Criterion kicks ass with the presentation and mastering of these four films. These are incredibly superior films – which is as usual with Lubitsch.”

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