I often turn to the IMDb before watching these Charlie Chan movies, not to glean any spoilers or reviews or anything, but simply because they have cast lists. Due to the wonky recording technologies of the 1940s, it is often damnably difficult to parse out precise sentences in even the best movies – making the online torrents of neglected B-franchises all the more incomprehensible. Hell, IMDb is often the only means I have of figuring out a character’s name – just compare the vague syllables and cadence those stilted ‘40s actors utter and – voila!
So it was pretty astounding when the page for Murder Over New York listed nearly every single actor in this flick (none of whom warrant photos or anything) in purple rather than blue – I’ve clicked on all these people already! Yup, here we have, expressed at its fullest, the Charlie Chan stock company, as more and more regularly the same dozen actors repeatedly appear in new roles, able to bring their particular and invaluable brand of suck to the Charlie Chan franchise. Names that are grotesquely familiar to me, and mean nothing to you, including Ricardo Cortez, Donald MacBride, Robert Lowery, Marjorie Weaver, John Sutton, Leyland Hodgson, and Kane Richmond. Also Sidney Toler and Victor Sen Yung, naturally. Of course, there’s always the occasional unfamiliar face, such as Lal Chand Mehra – who would only rarely be afforded a movie role, ‘cause he’s ethnic, and therefore beneath 1940s contempt.
Considering the cast is full of series regulars, it seems the filmmakers (and unimpressive director Harry Lachman) felt this gave them the excuse to avoid proper introductions or careful distinguishing. We’re supposed to assume these “familiar” 1940s actors are all so easily recognizable – yeah right! – that we’ll just go along with everything. That don’t work for me! Ah, but I’ve written like four Chan reviews with indistinguishable casts, so this shouldn’t be too hard to do again. Boring and redundant, though.
On a big deal commercial flight to New York (passing through I swear every other major city in the entire U.S. along the way), Charlie Chan meets Scotland Yard’s Inspector Drake (Frederick Worlock). Given his billing, and his profession (Scotland Yard is to Charlie Chan as dopey deputies are to horror), Drake is destined to die soon. But not too soon, for the title Murder Over New York is a misnomer – it oughta be Murder Just Right Down There in New York Like All the Others. Anyway, for now Drake is inspecting plane sabotage, as WWII topicality again rears its inescapably tiresome head after a two-film [or three-film] respite. Drake is pursing a known saboteur, so known they already have his photo and name…and that name would be…Paul! Because every damn Charlie Chan film is inexplicably obsessed with the name “Paul.” Yes, Paul Varlo is known, but hiding in plain sight. Much like immediate predecessors Charlie Chan at the Wax Museum and Charlie Chan’s Murder Cruise, they give the killer a name and nebulous identity, so as to avoid tricky things like “motives.” It’s an elegant solution, but it does get tiresome three times in a row. Oh, and Paul’s wife is in New York, so she’ll be able to help out this time.
Down at the airfield is “Number Two Son” Jimmy, for absolutely no good reason whatsoever – the Toler series is seriously incapable of ever justifying Jimmy’s presence, which was never a problem for Keye Luke. Also here is NY Inspector Vance (usual MacBride), here to escort Chan to his ostensible reason for being in New York (a policeman’s ball), before the film’s real reason (murder) can intrude.
Said intrusive (but thoroughly telegraphed) murder is discovered when, after the ball, Chan goes to Drake’s typically flat and uninteresting hotel suite to discover Drake dead in his library, a dead canary next to him all coal mine style. Jimmy, proving useful for the first time ever, positively identifies a brand new chemical as the culprit – hence [in throaty, hissed voice] murder! [Shock music!]
Our mass of suspects, all roughly ten of them, are suddenly in the room at the very same second, sans any preliminary introductions or anything to help me out, somehow even outdoing Charlie Chan at the Race Track for screwing up the only narrative nicety these things ever get right. My one trick in place of proper character introductions is to wait until proper names are uttered in the presence of the correct character (surprisingly rare, it seems – people only speak each others’ names when they’re not there, for heaven’s sake). Anyway, the ones I could place at this stage include a nameless butler (Clarence Muse), who resolutely did not do it (it now being 1940 – too late in the genre for that), entirely useless and distracting blonde June Preston (Joan Valerie), and – ah hah! – a pertinent character! That’s Ralph Percy (usual Richmond), chief aircraft engineer for George Kirby (usual Cortez), who I could only later positively identify ‘cause he’s the only cast member with full-on swarthy Latin charm (and sports a perverted mustache long after the series dropped that aggravating fetish).
Murder Over New York is also, in its own so very casual way, amongst the most racist Chan films – thus automatically amongst my least favorite, as evidenced by my constant loud sighs and blasphemies. Now, other entries (like series nadir Charlie Chan in Egypt) had racist caricatures shufflin’ all ‘bout, such as Stepin Fetchitt (the worst human being who ever lived). They were told in a racist manner; Murder Over New York simply is racist. Example – Here we have a (naturally uncredited) black man, uttering a line that quite unremarkable for this oft-insensitive series: “I dinnah knows nuthin’, suh!” Quoth Chan, himself now eternally altered from “a racist caricature” to “a racist:” “Darkie is in dark.” I am dead serious! And Vance, not to be outdone (it’s Donald MacBride, pride of the KKK, remember!), instantly demands his men fingerprint, beat and incarcerate the unnamed black man, in that order. Ah, racial profiling, ‘40s style!
A random break from the racism – lovebirds! Chemist David Elliot (usual Lowery) makes boring woo on sweetheart Patricia (usual Weaver). Now, the IMDb, in its infinite care, calls her “Patricia Shaw,” while the whole movie calls her “Patricia West.” I was breathlessly waiting the expected “Shaw” plot twist, which never arrived – methinks IMDb just bollixed up. Oh, and Pat’s married (not to David, though), and yet they’re all lovey-dovey – it seems B-movies could more regularly thumb their noses at Hays conventions than their erstwhile A-picture superiors. And, no, we don’t learn to whom Pat’s married – yet…
Okay, back to racism! Skipping past about ten minutes worth of red herringism, now Pat reveals her marriage – well, her first marriage, now annulled – Paul Narvo! The bad guy! Pat gives a lengthy glob of exposition, filmed by an unmoving camera in the least interesting framing possible (head dead center, white background, expressionless actress) – it all sounds like a recapping of the plot from Behind That Curtain, meaning they’re back to cribbing ideas (however aborted) from the old Derr Biggers sources. But wait, I promised 1940s racism! Here comes! Pat reveals she once lived in India (the poor Caucasian dear!), where she first learned of Paul Narvo’s evil saboteur ways – Ah, these Chan marriages are never properly pre-planned, are they? And, sure, that’s enough for Vance (and Chan, even) – Let’s round up every freaking Hindu in New York City, NOW!
I love how little provocation our (Chinese) heroes need here to kick around the other ethnics. Soon enough, all the Hindus in New York (all…thirty of ‘em) are forcefully cordoned into the police station for a thoroughly sensitive questioning session. This is a magical moment, when the film’s dialogue says more than I could ever hope to –
Vance: “I never knew there were so many Hindus in New York!”
Jimmy (an Asian): “They all look alike to me.”
Vance: “How many more of these Ali Babas are there?”
Vance, roundly offended by how dark-toned these men’s skin is, badmouths the Hindu nearest him. The man presents himself as a fakir, a soul cleaner. “We’re gonna clean your mug!” barks Vance, and at no moment are we expected to think this as satire of racism, like “South Park” – Nope, this is racism! But it’s dot Indians, you know, which is apparently fair game here.
This ridiculous scene (which has hardly anything to do with the plot, mind you) transcends in a most glorious manner into purest outrageousness. It turns out the fakir is Shemp Howard! (You know, the Stooge…Same year as the far, far, far better Bank Dick.) Whoop whoop whoop!
Pat then reveals Paul’s former manservant was named Ramullah. Thus Chan determines the same Ramullah must be in attendance here – ‘cause Hinduism isn’t, you know, worldwide or anything. So Vance yaps for a Ramullah to step forward and – oh sweet, merciful Vishnu! – fully half of New York’s thirty Hindus are named Ramullah! This movie blows me away! Pat cannot say which of these Ramullahs (if any) are hers, ‘cause she can’t tell ‘em apart either, even though she lived in India for years! God! Naturally, Vance concludes they’re ALL the evil Ramullah, and Jimmy decides they all once punched him…Okay.
So…whatever, let’s just drag one of those fifteen or so Ramullahs into Vance’ s office for further “questioning” (re: beating). Somehow, he is the Ramullah from Pat’s past, ‘cause that’s exactly how this sort of thing works. And then – bam bam! – gunshots kill Ramullah dead. Vance roundly congratulates his fellow police officers for an exceptional wanton murder – I am dead serious here – when Charlie Chan reveals instead a bit of exceedingly subtle evidence no one else would have ever seen – two great big obvious honking bullet holes in the room’s massive window!
Ooh, well done, Chan! One of these bullets, mind you, was meant for Pat, so Vance offers police protection for the deserving white girl. Chan heads off to solve the mystery, his social message of intolerance having been preached, while Vance sticks back to subjugate darkie a bit more.
Lacking any real clues (Drake’s briefcase identifying Narvo is long gone, naturally), Chan does the next best thing – break into a random Indian’s curio shop to further determine this ethnicity’s race-wide connection to Drake’s murder. And he’s right – out there in the shop’s open are plane plans, sure proof Chan’s on the right track. This was in a randomly selected curio shop, mind you. RACISM! And in the end…all this is still just a red herring, the film’s chance to badmouth Habibi for way too long. Message received, Fox Studios. You can thank your lucky stars The Last Airbender was from Paramount.
Another lengthy plot thread arrives in the appearance of Drake’s missing briefcase, which prompts a lot of running around determining who had it when. Somehow little of this is to any effect either, for if Chan gets his hands on that case before the movie is out, none of the evidence in it will prove remotely worthwhile – sorry, that’s just how this formula works. Any indeed, once the photo of Paul Varlo is finally discovered, he doesn’t resemble a single suspect on display here. I’m thankful for Chan to point this out, for I cannot tell ‘em apart (white people all look the same, eh).
Oh right, and Kirby got murdered at some point too. There’s one clue associated with that – Kirby wears a derby! Heh heh!
With enough movie time having passed, Chan can simply arrange his traditional climactic Chanquest, and find the baddie here – plots usually be damned in Chan. Another “experimental” plane is retrofitted for the day’s flight, and two random thugs arrive out of nowhere to plant a canister of deadly death upon it – it’s the same setup as Charlie Chan in Panama, and it’ll play out exactly like that one. I tell you what, such trickery loses its impact (on the audience) when repeated in such quick succession.
So all the major (male) suspects are corralled onto the plane, which hurtles through the air in a wildly implausible series of aeronautic maneuvers no plane could make in 1940. At least it’s not stock footage, but hilariously transparent B-movie model work. It’s kinda cute and endearing, actually, when the movie actually tilts the image to make it seem like the plane is at a steeper angle, even when the clouds are now at 30̊ too.
Then the plane goes into a dive – the moment we’ve been told will break the canister of deadly death – and the bad guy rushes out to grab said death first, saving his treasonous hide. And per this film’s inability to differentiate its cast, the culprit is a man I wasn’t even aware of previously – Herbert “Snuffy” Fenton (unusual Melville Cooper).
As I guessed well ahead of time, as per Panama, Chan had already switched the real death for some faux-death, a pure setup to net Fenton – whom he already suspected, natch. And when Vance accuses Fenton of the many, many murders, both he and Chan protest. Ah hah!, double twist! Okay, so the real Paul Narvo is…wait for it…David. And he was married to Pat, quite in contradiction to their earliest dialogue, because [head slamming against wall, angering neighbors]! Okay, so get this, Pat was married to the guy she’d divorced, without even realizing it! That’s plastic surgery for ya, at least in the ‘40s – plastic surgery then could change a guy’s entire appearance and demeanor, just like those “Mission: Impossible” masks. (This exact same twist, by the way, was done far more cogently in the very recent Charlie Chan Wax Museum.)
As usual, the killer’s reveal suggests a wild amount of potential plot holes (Why’d Paul Narvo get plastic surgery and then marry the same woman he’d just been married to when she had nothing to do with the aeronautics he was busy sabotaging?) the movie isn’t remotely ready to address. But no matter, ‘cause the movie’s over now, and it’s already gotten your precious, precious nickel (or whatever), so screw you, audience. You’ll come back for the next Charlie Chan picture, insensitivity and plot holes or no, ‘cause it’s all that’ll distract you from your pathetic 1940 life! Up yours, paying customer!
Boy, this one pissed me off, and after I enjoyed the last entry (Charlie Chan’s Murder Cruise) thoroughly. And here’s heartening news – I’m informed by the Internet that this is one of the better ones from here on out – that’s twenty more Chans to go, all of apparently decreased quality…Bring it on!
Related posts:
• No. 3 Behind That Curtain (1929)
• No. 4 Charlie Chan Carries On (1931)
• No. 5 The Black Camel (1931)
• No. 9 Charlie Chan in London (1934)
• No. 10 Charlie Chan in Paris (1935)
• No. 11 Charlie Chan in Egypt (1935)
• No. 12 Charlie Chan in Shanghai (1935)
• No. 13 Charlie Chan’s Secret (1936)
• No. 14 Charlie Chan at the Circus (1936)
• No. 15 Charlie Chan at the Race Track (1936)
• No. 16 Charlie Chan at the Opera (1936)
• No. 17 Charlie Chan at the Olympics (1937)
• No. 18 Charlie Chan on Broadway (1937)
• No. 19 Charlie Chan at Monte Carlo (1938)
• No. 20 Charlie Chan in Honolulu (1938)
• No. 21 Charlie Chan in Reno (1939)
• No. 22 Charlie Chan at Treasure Island (1939)
• No. 23 City in Darkness (1939)
• No. 24 Charlie Chan in Panama (1940)
• No. 25 Charlie Chan at the Wax Museum (1940)
• No. 26 Charlie Chan’s Murder Cruise (1940)
• No. 28 Dead Men tell (1941)
• No. 29 Charlie Chan in Rio (1941)
• No. 30 Castle in the Desert (1942)
• No. 31 Charlie Chan in the Secret Service (1944)
• No. 32 The Chinese Cat (1944)
• No. 33 Meeting at Midnight (1944)
• No. 34 The Shanghai Cobra (1945)
• No. 35 The Red Dragon (1945)
• No. 36 The Scarlet Clue (1945)
• No. 37 The Jade Mask (1945)
• No. 38 Dark Alibi (1946)
• No. 40 Dangerous Money (1946)
• No. 41 The Trap (1946)
• No. 42 The Chinese Ring (1947)
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