Mr. Wong, No. 5 - Doomed to Die (1940)

Staring down the prospect of writing and blogging about Doomed to Die, I fear the same sort of apathy which shattered my meager efforts to opine on the former Fatal Hour. There are a few facts (that is to say, one single fact) to pique interest: Though not quite the last in the series (there’s one more), this is Boris Karloff’s final outing as the plot-resolving Mr. James Lee Wong – a Wong swan song. I wish that filled me with some emotion, any emotion, but it’s surprising just how neutral Karloff has been as the titular detective. I don’t know what to attribute that to, the films’ strident and unusual effort to avoid racism, Monogram’s one-take refusal to ever make a movie remotely beyond barely adequate, or simply an apathy on Karloff’s part which rivals my own. The fact is that here he is at his end, with a far awesomer career surrounding him on all sides…Hell, maybe it was just contracts keeping Karloff around for as many lackluster entries as he did.

So, in light of the challenge which Doomed to Die poses to my icy soul, I shall “live blog it,” as it were, and let my initial reactions form what ultimately makes its way online – An old fallback of mine, when inspiration fails, and something I almost always hate doing (last use: Disaster Movie).

First, let us ignore the opening titles, which reveal nothing, and revel in uncharacteristically stereotypical “Oriental” music. La la la la la…

Okay, movie’s on! Stock footage of a ship segues to stock footage of newspapers flying at us (a common aviation hazard in 1940) to warn of a ship-borne inferno. For a bit of exposition, this is clever enough, even leaning upon Monogram’s loony love of midgets.

Now offices, set-bound boredom replacing stock footage zaniness. The movie’s too quick for me, rushing through three character intros (complete with back story, role, personality, everything, so they never need bother with it again), all in the time it takes me to type up “three.” Let’s see, there’s an attorney Victor Martin (Henry Brandon), the besuitedly bland Matthews (Wilbur Mack), and Wentworth (Melvin Lang), the grand poobah of the bunch – who is the likeliest party for first act murder.


The movie continues to unspool speedily, but sans interest, as I take the time needed to take screen caps…As we learn that Wentworth, apart from being a businessman with a murder-baiting will, also has an inevitable-love-interest daughter Cynthia (Catherine Craig). There’s some exposition which hints, obliquely, at the Manhattan Project – surely Monogram’s typewriter simians didn’t know of this by ’40, but this prediction reflects the increasing wartime concern of the era.

Now a similarly suited Cyrus is here (Melvin Lang), to brag with Wentworth about the shipping business – I recall my habit of exceptional wordiness when keyboard-narrating movies, so it’s time to slow down a bit, maybe read a few online articles while doing this too. [Dur de dur…] Oh, here’s Ted! – And by “Ted” I mean “Dick,” because old movies have muddled dialogue often. Dick is either Wentworth’s son-in-law, or his actual son, and I hope it’s the former, because he’s actively seeking Cynthia’s hand in marriage – yup, there’s the standard Young Lover Couple right there – Where’s Wong?! I demand death!

Okay, this is how these mysteries go: Basically every suspect is mad at every other, specifically mad at Wentworth, who’s gone and – No, wait, Cyrus is the murder victim! That’s a surprise! (Small miracles.) “He’s dead.” Dialogue!


Cynthia’s introduction occurs alongside the return of recurring character “Bobbie” Johnson (Marjorie Reynolds), the damn best thing about these movies – channeling just the slightest hint of screwball energy into these more anemic mysteries. And – that scene didn’t last long. I fear this’ll be the way with Bobbie.

Crime scene, now it’s Bill Street’s (Grant Withers) reintroduction, he the series’ secret main character – more than ever now in this epic example of Wonglessness. Street oversees the investigation with his characteristic incompetence, habitually selecting the male half of the Young Lover Couple as el suspecto numero uno – thus Dick is arrested in a random, stylish unrelated scene.

At the station, Street plays with his shackled Dick, trying to agitate Dick so that Dick might spit forth information. Bobbie is there. Wow, there is nothing of note so far, I’d have nothing to say without this stream-of-consciousness approach to lean upon – only Wong’s continued nonexistence is worth noting, but the character is enough of a blank slate for it to not even matter. Nearly twenty minutes in… (Of 67.)

No wait, here is Wong!


I guess it’s a good thing Wong arrived when he did, because the plot was spiraling helplessly out of control – Wong insists that opening stock footage ship indeed had some pertinence. Furthermore, a few of the poor drowned souls aboard it were Chinese, which in this franchise is always a functional substitute for a genuine clue.

Chineseness being enough, Wong is off to Chinatown, a bi-entry sojourn, owing to Monogram’s limited sets – such as the same apothecary store and tong hideout (though as a sequel, set repetition is excusable, as it is the same setting). Tongs and Wong review potential leads, what with secret missions and whatnot and – Okay, I’m hungry! Time to let the movie unspool in silence while I go and procure some microwaveable taquitos…

…

While those delicious morsels cook up, nothing new to report on the movie end. Tongs prong Wong – with violence – leading to a stock footage car chase and – My food is ready!

…

There’s actual gunfire and blood and crashing cars all about, which is rather closer to the late ‘40s Monogram I’m more familiar with. I – [eat eat eat!] – appreciate this approach, this is nonsensical, but is something Monogram can do to overcome the shallow characters, the inconsequential plot, the general disposability. And with that scant uptick in energy, Karloff actually gets a subtle laugh line – something closer to the Karloff one pictures headlining a detective series.

A scene away from Wong, Street or Bobbie, back to Wentworth’s scheming (concerning Cyrus’ presumed suicide, which hasn’t really been stated clearly yet). This isn’t worth commenting upon. [Eat eat eat!]

Eventually our central trio barges upon the scene, to trade further expository info. Surprise surprise, even in this writing approach, I find I cannot commit to actually listening to this mess. I do not care about how Dick relates to Wentworth and the rest, this being the sort of narrative complexity which is hard to present cinematically – an ongoing struggle of period mysteries. Arghh! There’s some effort at using Dick’s obvious innocence to draw us along emotionally, but he is just a tool for pure technical exposition, the same as everybody else.


[Extended pause to fend off a phone call from my bored friend in Wisconsin.]

Okay, it’s a challenge now to regain grounding in the film, so I’ll just dig out on the noir-tinged cinematography – possibly just an accident of cheap resources and B&W film. It’s still moody and effective, especially since a no doubt soon-to-die cat burglar is being stalked up a fire escape by – is that Wong? Yup. Man has a habit of entering buildings via unusual entries – in this case, a tenth-storey window. It’s something, characterization-wise. Yeah, these silent bits of proto-noir, divorced of earth-bound plots, are the best parts of mysteries – that is, when they aren’t being character comedies.

Street enters, pistol a-blazin’, and scares off the burglar without a single fatality. Things calmed down, I retire to heat up some more snacks…

Thankfully, Doomed to Die switches out inky black suspense for more traded comic barbs, courtesy of Bobbie. Food’s ready!


At some point – it goes to show my continued inattention that I cannot say when – Wentworth was killed, fulfilling the needed secondary death. What with a will and all, he really was doomed. [Eat eat eat!] Wong now begins his clever scheming in anticipation of the climax (some 20 minutes away), demanding infrared film – seeing as it’s 1940, this demands a pause for the Crime Lab™ guys to explain to Bobbie (women – sheesh) just what infrared film is, and why we should use it to exterminate the Nazis. Naturally, a lengthy development scene follows, to further ground this new technology. Thankfully, the Bobbie/Street love-hate relationship fuels this scene with humor. Wong remains mostly tiresome.

Down to the docks, to another shadowy Monogram set – Docks, for that automatic injection of atmosphere (unpictured)! The plot reasoning for this – to follow up on a new name on the ship’s manifest, but if you couldn’t tell, I’m beyond trying with this story. Wong, Street and Bobbie all separately creep around dark corridors, in a manner Ed Wood, Jr. would refer to as “lurking.” Bobbie sees something off screen, screams girlishly, and I suppose I can forgive this lapse into female ‘40s stereotyping, seeing as Bobbie is usually totally adverse to such shenanigans. And it reveals the occasional (but not set-in-stone) third corpse, identity yet unknown. (Future edit: It’s Tie Ling, the Asian guy they’ve come down to check up on.)


The creeping scene continues; in fact, the characters’ comic interplay mixes with it, yielding quite possibly the most engaging single sequence yet for Wong & Co. Perhaps energized by these more overtly horrific qualities, Karloff even tosses a little light ham-acting into his Wong – trilled recitations on Chinese artifact history. Things are exciting enough, I’ve even forgotten all about my taquitos. [Eat eat eat!]

And…another fat, style-free exposition scene in the police station. Doomed to Die has been operating at such a relatively elevated level for long enough, some downtime is earned. Time to debate the implications of the latest clues found, as I tune out. I similarly ignore Bobbie’s misconstruing of hari kari as “harry harry.” Odd how everyone (sans Wong, natch) keeps insisting upon suicide for each death, even while the latest dude was stabbed in the back. (Some of this is self-aware, and thus lightly humorous.)

Exposition scene. Ignored. All in service of stiffening Dick’s and Cynthia’s lovey-doveyness.


Time remains only for a climax. For whatever reason, Doomed to Die errs as it did at the start by refocusing upon a house of tiresome suspects. Among them is a larger old man I’ve probably confused with Wentworth throughout the picture, because I only now become aware of him – Paul Fleming (Guy Usher). And…he’s dead, shot, murdered, and someone’s responsible. (Here is a fault in this “immediate response” approach, because the instant I finish that sentence, it turns out Paul isn’t dead, but oh well.)

All this gets Wong, Street, Bobbie, all the people we care about – it gets them assembled with the rest. It plays according to clockwork: Wong makes a surprise allegation so Street can arrest the proper villain, and I’m too ethical as a blogger (and also I’m not paying enough attention) to reveal that shock ending to you. And though this finale isn’t terribly functional, it is a virtue of older movies that they know to quit before things get worse – the movie ended something like a minute ago, in typing time.

In conclusion (what creative writing!), Doomed to Die surprises me more than anyone by being halfway entertaining. Maybe it’s a result of this type-as-I-go approach, but I think it’s something as simple as an increase of stylish ‘40s cinematography. Repeatedly, these forgotten old B-movies excel at visuals, and flounder with narrative – which separate nicely. One recalls Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil, which was praised by some of his contemporaries solely for its surreal visuals. The plot is decent, and works, but is mostly frivolous. Doomed to Die works in a similar, but much humbler, level. That is all.

Mr. Wong, No. 6 - Phantom of Chinatown (1940)

Losing the lead actor isn’t necessarily the death knell for a franchise. But with Boris Karloff’s departure from the Mr. Wong series, there was no more need for Wongs – not that Karloff particularly brought anything to the series, except his mere presence. Oddly, Karloff proved the universe wrong and found a role he could be boring in, but that name on the marquee was enough to fuel five movies entirely on its own. With Karloff off, there is now no reason for Monogram to wring Wongs for long – to say nothing that the Wong “creative” team (director: William Nigh, writer: some guys). So, freed from the expectation that the final Wong is anything but a one-off, new director Phil Rosen (familiar from many an East Side Kids film, notably Spooks Run Wild) does something wholly unprecedented for a series about an Asian detective:

He hires an Asian actor!

Between the sixty-one shared films of Charlie Chan, Mr. Moto and Mr. Wong (the curiously prolific “Chinese detective” sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-subgenre of mystery movies), only one film goes beyond the white race when casting its hero, and that’d be this movie, the final Wong – Phantom of Chinatown. Amazing to think that there was a time in Hollywood when slapping some yellowface and falsely slanty eyes on a Caucasian was the preferable alternative to providing minority actors with employment…which goes to show how progressive the overall Mr. Wong series has been to simply respect its Mr. Wong character, and not characterize him as an archaic and unsubtle stereotype. And when you’re casting a legitimate Asian lead in 1940 Hollywood, there is literally only one name on that list: Keye Luke


Keye Luke kicks ass! (Ignore the white guy on the right.) Luke was America’s sole Asian leading man of his generation – arguably, things wouldn’t evolve beyond that until Bruce Lee crossed over in Enter the Dragon. (Luke anticipated Lee even by playing Cato, the Green Hornet’s inarguably more competent sidekick.) Hell, by 1961, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Hollywood was still allowing its noble Caucasians run condescending rampage over a whole continent’s people!

Anyway, Keye Luke is awesome, and totally comfortable in the Asian mystery format, having long played Charlie Chan’s “Number One Son” Lee. It is an example of Luke’s never-tested acting skill that his one-film interpretation of Wong is nothing like his more naïve, enthusiastic Lee. In Phantom of Chinatown, Luke channels some degree of Karloff’s flat, almost nonexistent performance, but makes it interesting. Consider it: Karloff’s seeming intent with Wong was to be inoffensive – a damned hard thing to do when the costumer has given you prosthetic buckteeth. Karloff’s solution was to make Wong completely without personality – unless the world’s blandest stoicism counts – as an effort to avoid anything which might be construed as anti-Asian. This was his defining trait, to be not stereotypical, and yet Wong remained defined by his Asianness – a thankless paradox, in light of Karloff’s unmistakable English background.

Luke avoids the pitfalls of Karloff’s interpretation by being Asian. Thus he needn’t worry about demeaning an “other,” and must only be concerned with not appearing like the Chinese equivalent of Stepin Fetchit – a role which series regular (or as he’d say, “legural”) Lee Tung Foo has inhabited ever since Mr. Wong, Detective. Instead, Luke plays Wong as a normal person – a completely radical interpretation of race circa 1940, to be sure! To maintain continuity, Luke channels Karloff’s uncharacteristic blandness, but turns it into a straight-faced, deadpan irony. Actually, there’s a bit more to Luke’s surprisingly subtle, varied Wong, which leads to another way in which Phantom of Chinatown is a shockingly atypical movie:

It is a prequel!


Prequels weren’t yet common in the film franchise vernacular by 1940, and Phantom of Chinatown doesn’t advertise this fact, but it remains evident that Luke’s Wong is a younger, less experienced version who would eventually morph into Karloff – race-bending and all!

To prove this is a prequel, and not just typical 1940 half-assed discontinuity (a commonplace occurrence among Poverty Row franchises), Luke’s Wong has only just arrived in San Francisco. He lives out of a hotel with Foo. He first meets Police Captain Street (Grant Withers, officially becoming the sole actor to weather the entire six-film series...eh, he and Foo), and solves his first murder mystery – drawn into it because of a coincidental Oriental connection (and no accidental Occidental!). There are even subtler details, such as the presence of a cop named Grady, whose unseen murder would eventually fuel Part Four, The Fatal Hour.

Sadly, this unofficial prequel status negates the possibility of Marjorie Reynolds’ fantastic Bobbie Logan returning, but Luke more than makes up for that deficiency.

So…prequel when they weren’t made, starring a Chinese actor in a leading role…it’s as though Rosen & Co. knew there was no need to perpetuate the series, and were simply shattering some well-shattered taboos. The result is, to be contrarian with average internet opinion (which holds, predicably, that Part One is always the best), I think the very best film in the Wong throng, made that way by the freedom of being the last.


Hell, even the desultory murder mystery angle is a little fresher this time around! Luke aside, the movie as a whole is a damn lot clearer under Rosen than any of Nigh’s efforts. (Because complex mysteries were never the Wong forte.) Recall, the cases formerly have involved such scintillating non-issues as check fraud, bank statements, multiple unofficial drafts of wills, radio contracts, shipping manifests, and other such effluvia I’ve struggled to give half a shit about. Phantom of Chinatown is instead about archeology! This is awesome!

The opening seems hardly to belong in the Wong swan song. Stock footage unspools about an archeological expedition into Darkest Mongolia, but here it’s legitimately presented as footage – that is, part of a post-trek lecture, so we needn’t play the game of pretending it fits in with Monogram’s rather less grainy original film stock. And in an era where newsreels were one’s window into the world, showing genuine footage of Mongolia has worth. Then, in the midst of this, we randomly flashback to a portion of the archeologists’ journey, simply because Monogram had a temple set lying around.


Cutting to the chase, lecturer Dr. Benton (Charles F. Miller) dies in full audience view when he sips some poisoned water. The suspect roster is comprised of his expedition partners, filling the usual roles – including Lover Couple and Random Crusty Old Dude. As Street and Wong separately look into the matter, for their separate reasons, the motive underlying all this becomes welcomely clear: The killer seeks a scroll. A scroll detailing the whereabouts of the Temple of Eternal Fire (!), and its treasure – which isn’t ancient relics, but oil deposits. Ooh, timely!

You know, phrasing a murder mystery in the genre trappings of an old Republic serial – i.e. if Indiana Jones did more detection, and less Nazi-punching – makes things so much easier to follow. Simply as a common movie motif, pulpy tomb raiding carries rules and connotations, whereas check fraud does not. What follows, for the rest of the film, is remarkably clear, all because “wants a scroll” is as simple as “wants the Ark,” or “the Maltese Falcon,” or “the microfilm.”


Such simplicity is in keeping with Phantom’s prequel status, since Luke’s Wong is just getting a feel for this whole gumshoe thing. He teams up quickly enough with Street. As an example of Phantom’s unique take on the mystery genre, Street and Wong even acknowledge how formulaic the story they’ve found themselves in appears. Each admits – this is the first time an old mystery film has copped to this standard – that the most obvious suspect is never the killer, at least in fiction. This attitude never gets too smarmily “meta,” partly because that wasn’t really an option circa 1940, but it shows Rosen approached Wong more critically than Nigh ever did.

The entire Wong series has distinguished itself by being racially progressive, at least for its time, underplaying or thumbing its nose at then-common notions of “Oriental exoticism.” Phantom of Chinatown takes this idea the furthest, beyond its casting of Luke, by populating a massive amount of the supporting cast with other Asians. The tradeoff of this spontaneous affirmative action is that there were hardly any other Asian actors then available. Lotus Long, long-time (heh?) regular series victim, is promoted to leading lady status, which seems a little beyond her acting abilities, though I’m glad they gave her the chance. Most other Asian actors appear to be complete amateurs. Overall, however, this is a minor problem.


Keye Luke is really the lucky key to Phantom of Chinatown – the mystery, though clear, is mostly disposable, and many other elements on hand aren’t distinct enough from the regular Wong throng (or any Monogram effort, for that matter). Wong is clearly learning his chops (suey – sorry, that’s a joke these films would make), like an incredibly minor variation on Casino Royale’s chief pleasures. That self-aware attitude serves Wong through the end, since he’s not a master detective, not in this version, but just a guy copying what the movies show him. So to finally catch the killer, Wong uses a Charlie Chan Special™ - without actual knowledge or clues, instead he fakes the appearance of such, and instead lays an ambush. The crook(s) is/are arrested, and Wong doesn’t even deign to conclude with a know-it-all expository lecture to fill us all it. That isn’t needed, for things are clear enough already. Events are fast paced, which more than offsets the procedural structure. The characters, especially Wong, are more engaging than usual, proving that is a mystery film’s true bread and butter.

Keye Luke never enjoyed another role nearly as prominent as this one, though he worked prolifically for the rest of a fruitful career, well into the 1980s. Most of Luke’s credits remain in the B-movie miasma of Monogram and their competitors, which is no slight to what he might’ve achieved in a later generation. Phantom of Chinatown, though generic, stands as an example of what might’ve been, and for that I am incredibly grateful.

Mr. Wong, No. 5 - Doomed to Die (1940)

Staring down the prospect of writing and blogging about Doomed to Die, I fear the same sort of apathy which shattered my meager efforts to opine on the former Fatal Hour. There are a few facts (that is to say, one single fact) to pique interest: Though not quite the last in the series (there’s one more), this is Boris Karloff’s final outing as the plot-resolving Mr. James Lee Wong – a Wong swan song. I wish that filled me with some emotion, any emotion, but it’s surprising just how neutral Karloff has been as the titular detective. I don’t know what to attribute that to, the films’ strident and unusual effort to avoid racism, Monogram’s one-take refusal to ever make a movie remotely beyond barely adequate, or simply an apathy on Karloff’s part which rivals my own. The fact is that here he is at his end, with a far awesomer career surrounding him on all sides…Hell, maybe it was just contracts keeping Karloff around for as many lackluster entries as he did.

So, in light of the challenge which Doomed to Die poses to my icy soul, I shall “live blog it,” as it were, and let my initial reactions form what ultimately makes its way online – An old fallback of mine, when inspiration fails, and something I almost always hate doing (last use: Disaster Movie).

First, let us ignore the opening titles, which reveal nothing, and revel in uncharacteristically stereotypical “Oriental” music. La la la la la…

Okay, movie’s on! Stock footage of a ship segues to stock footage of newspapers flying at us (a common aviation hazard in 1940) to warn of a ship-borne inferno. For a bit of exposition, this is clever enough, even leaning upon Monogram’s loony love of midgets.

Now offices, set-bound boredom replacing stock footage zaniness. The movie’s too quick for me, rushing through three character intros (complete with back story, role, personality, everything, so they never need bother with it again), all in the time it takes me to type up “three.” Let’s see, there’s an attorney Victor Martin (Henry Brandon), the besuitedly bland Matthews (Wilbur Mack), and Wentworth (Melvin Lang), the grand poobah of the bunch – who is the likeliest party for first act murder.


The movie continues to unspool speedily, but sans interest, as I take the time needed to take screen caps…As we learn that Wentworth, apart from being a businessman with a murder-baiting will, also has an inevitable-love-interest daughter Cynthia (Catherine Craig). There’s some exposition which hints, obliquely, at the Manhattan Project – surely Monogram’s typewriter simians didn’t know of this by ’40, but this prediction reflects the increasing wartime concern of the era.

Now a similarly suited Cyrus is here (Melvin Lang), to brag with Wentworth about the shipping business – I recall my habit of exceptional wordiness when keyboard-narrating movies, so it’s time to slow down a bit, maybe read a few online articles while doing this too. [Dur de dur…] Oh, here’s Ted! – And by “Ted” I mean “Dick,” because old movies have muddled dialogue often. Dick is either Wentworth’s son-in-law, or his actual son, and I hope it’s the former, because he’s actively seeking Cynthia’s hand in marriage – yup, there’s the standard Young Lover Couple right there – Where’s Wong?! I demand death!

Okay, this is how these mysteries go: Basically every suspect is mad at every other, specifically mad at Wentworth, who’s gone and – No, wait, Cyrus is the murder victim! That’s a surprise! (Small miracles.) “He’s dead.” Dialogue!


Cynthia’s introduction occurs alongside the return of recurring character “Bobbie” Johnson (Marjorie Reynolds), the damn best thing about these movies – channeling just the slightest hint of screwball energy into these more anemic mysteries. And – that scene didn’t last long. I fear this’ll be the way with Bobbie.

Crime scene, now it’s Bill Street’s (Grant Withers) reintroduction, he the series’ secret main character – more than ever now in this epic example of Wonglessness. Street oversees the investigation with his characteristic incompetence, habitually selecting the male half of the Young Lover Couple as el suspecto numero uno – thus Dick is arrested in a random, stylish unrelated scene.

At the station, Street plays with his shackled Dick, trying to agitate Dick so that Dick might spit forth information. Bobbie is there. Wow, there is nothing of note so far, I’d have nothing to say without this stream-of-consciousness approach to lean upon – only Wong’s continued nonexistence is worth noting, but the character is enough of a blank slate for it to not even matter. Nearly twenty minutes in… (Of 67.)

No wait, here is Wong!


I guess it’s a good thing Wong arrived when he did, because the plot was spiraling helplessly out of control – Wong insists that opening stock footage ship indeed had some pertinence. Furthermore, a few of the poor drowned souls aboard it were Chinese, which in this franchise is always a functional substitute for a genuine clue.

Chineseness being enough, Wong is off to Chinatown, a bi-entry sojourn, owing to Monogram’s limited sets – such as the same apothecary store and tong hideout (though as a sequel, set repetition is excusable, as it is the same setting). Tongs and Wong review potential leads, what with secret missions and whatnot and – Okay, I’m hungry! Time to let the movie unspool in silence while I go and procure some microwaveable taquitos…

…

While those delicious morsels cook up, nothing new to report on the movie end. Tongs prong Wong – with violence – leading to a stock footage car chase and – My food is ready!

…

There’s actual gunfire and blood and crashing cars all about, which is rather closer to the late ‘40s Monogram I’m more familiar with. I – [eat eat eat!] – appreciate this approach, this is nonsensical, but is something Monogram can do to overcome the shallow characters, the inconsequential plot, the general disposability. And with that scant uptick in energy, Karloff actually gets a subtle laugh line – something closer to the Karloff one pictures headlining a detective series.

A scene away from Wong, Street or Bobbie, back to Wentworth’s scheming (concerning Cyrus’ presumed suicide, which hasn’t really been stated clearly yet). This isn’t worth commenting upon. [Eat eat eat!]

Eventually our central trio barges upon the scene, to trade further expository info. Surprise surprise, even in this writing approach, I find I cannot commit to actually listening to this mess. I do not care about how Dick relates to Wentworth and the rest, this being the sort of narrative complexity which is hard to present cinematically – an ongoing struggle of period mysteries. Arghh! There’s some effort at using Dick’s obvious innocence to draw us along emotionally, but he is just a tool for pure technical exposition, the same as everybody else.


[Extended pause to fend off a phone call from my bored friend in Wisconsin.]

Okay, it’s a challenge now to regain grounding in the film, so I’ll just dig out on the noir-tinged cinematography – possibly just an accident of cheap resources and B&W film. It’s still moody and effective, especially since a no doubt soon-to-die cat burglar is being stalked up a fire escape by – is that Wong? Yup. Man has a habit of entering buildings via unusual entries – in this case, a tenth-storey window. It’s something, characterization-wise. Yeah, these silent bits of proto-noir, divorced of earth-bound plots, are the best parts of mysteries – that is, when they aren’t being character comedies.

Street enters, pistol a-blazin’, and scares off the burglar without a single fatality. Things calmed down, I retire to heat up some more snacks…

Thankfully, Doomed to Die switches out inky black suspense for more traded comic barbs, courtesy of Bobbie. Food’s ready!


At some point – it goes to show my continued inattention that I cannot say when – Wentworth was killed, fulfilling the needed secondary death. What with a will and all, he really was doomed. [Eat eat eat!] Wong now begins his clever scheming in anticipation of the climax (some 20 minutes away), demanding infrared film – seeing as it’s 1940, this demands a pause for the Crime Lab™ guys to explain to Bobbie (women – sheesh) just what infrared film is, and why we should use it to exterminate the Nazis. Naturally, a lengthy development scene follows, to further ground this new technology. Thankfully, the Bobbie/Street love-hate relationship fuels this scene with humor. Wong remains mostly tiresome.

Down to the docks, to another shadowy Monogram set – Docks, for that automatic injection of atmosphere (unpictured)! The plot reasoning for this – to follow up on a new name on the ship’s manifest, but if you couldn’t tell, I’m beyond trying with this story. Wong, Street and Bobbie all separately creep around dark corridors, in a manner Ed Wood, Jr. would refer to as “lurking.” Bobbie sees something off screen, screams girlishly, and I suppose I can forgive this lapse into female ‘40s stereotyping, seeing as Bobbie is usually totally adverse to such shenanigans. And it reveals the occasional (but not set-in-stone) third corpse, identity yet unknown. (Future edit: It’s Tie Ling, the Asian guy they’ve come down to check up on.)


The creeping scene continues; in fact, the characters’ comic interplay mixes with it, yielding quite possibly the most engaging single sequence yet for Wong & Co. Perhaps energized by these more overtly horrific qualities, Karloff even tosses a little light ham-acting into his Wong – trilled recitations on Chinese artifact history. Things are exciting enough, I’ve even forgotten all about my taquitos. [Eat eat eat!]

And…another fat, style-free exposition scene in the police station. Doomed to Die has been operating at such a relatively elevated level for long enough, some downtime is earned. Time to debate the implications of the latest clues found, as I tune out. I similarly ignore Bobbie’s misconstruing of hari kari as “harry harry.” Odd how everyone (sans Wong, natch) keeps insisting upon suicide for each death, even while the latest dude was stabbed in the back. (Some of this is self-aware, and thus lightly humorous.)

Exposition scene. Ignored. All in service of stiffening Dick’s and Cynthia’s lovey-doveyness.


Time remains only for a climax. For whatever reason, Doomed to Die errs as it did at the start by refocusing upon a house of tiresome suspects. Among them is a larger old man I’ve probably confused with Wentworth throughout the picture, because I only now become aware of him – Paul Fleming (Guy Usher). And…he’s dead, shot, murdered, and someone’s responsible. (Here is a fault in this “immediate response” approach, because the instant I finish that sentence, it turns out Paul isn’t dead, but oh well.)

All this gets Wong, Street, Bobbie, all the people we care about – it gets them assembled with the rest. It plays according to clockwork: Wong makes a surprise allegation so Street can arrest the proper villain, and I’m too ethical as a blogger (and also I’m not paying enough attention) to reveal that shock ending to you. And though this finale isn’t terribly functional, it is a virtue of older movies that they know to quit before things get worse – the movie ended something like a minute ago, in typing time.

In conclusion (what creative writing!), Doomed to Die surprises me more than anyone by being halfway entertaining. Maybe it’s a result of this type-as-I-go approach, but I think it’s something as simple as an increase of stylish ‘40s cinematography. Repeatedly, these forgotten old B-movies excel at visuals, and flounder with narrative – which separate nicely. One recalls Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil, which was praised by some of his contemporaries solely for its surreal visuals. The plot is decent, and works, but is mostly frivolous. Doomed to Die works in a similar, but much humbler, level. That is all.

Mr. Wong, No. 6 - Phantom of Chinatown (1940)

Losing the lead actor isn’t necessarily the death knell for a franchise. But with Boris Karloff’s departure from the Mr. Wong series, there was no more need for Wongs – not that Karloff particularly brought anything to the series, except his mere presence. Oddly, Karloff proved the universe wrong and found a role he could be boring in, but that name on the marquee was enough to fuel five movies entirely on its own. With Karloff off, there is now no reason for Monogram to wring Wongs for long – to say nothing that the Wong “creative” team (director: William Nigh, writer: some guys). So, freed from the expectation that the final Wong is anything but a one-off, new director Phil Rosen (familiar from many an East Side Kids film, notably Spooks Run Wild) does something wholly unprecedented for a series about an Asian detective:

He hires an Asian actor!

Between the sixty-one shared films of Charlie Chan, Mr. Moto and Mr. Wong (the curiously prolific “Chinese detective” sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-subgenre of mystery movies), only one film goes beyond the white race when casting its hero, and that’d be this movie, the final Wong – Phantom of Chinatown. Amazing to think that there was a time in Hollywood when slapping some yellowface and falsely slanty eyes on a Caucasian was the preferable alternative to providing minority actors with employment…which goes to show how progressive the overall Mr. Wong series has been to simply respect its Mr. Wong character, and not characterize him as an archaic and unsubtle stereotype. And when you’re casting a legitimate Asian lead in 1940 Hollywood, there is literally only one name on that list: Keye Luke


Keye Luke kicks ass! (Ignore the white guy on the right.) Luke was America’s sole Asian leading man of his generation – arguably, things wouldn’t evolve beyond that until Bruce Lee crossed over in Enter the Dragon. (Luke anticipated Lee even by playing Cato, the Green Hornet’s inarguably more competent sidekick.) Hell, by 1961, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Hollywood was still allowing its noble Caucasians run condescending rampage over a whole continent’s people!

Anyway, Keye Luke is awesome, and totally comfortable in the Asian mystery format, having long played Charlie Chan’s “Number One Son” Lee. It is an example of Luke’s never-tested acting skill that his one-film interpretation of Wong is nothing like his more naïve, enthusiastic Lee. In Phantom of Chinatown, Luke channels some degree of Karloff’s flat, almost nonexistent performance, but makes it interesting. Consider it: Karloff’s seeming intent with Wong was to be inoffensive – a damned hard thing to do when the costumer has given you prosthetic buckteeth. Karloff’s solution was to make Wong completely without personality – unless the world’s blandest stoicism counts – as an effort to avoid anything which might be construed as anti-Asian. This was his defining trait, to be not stereotypical, and yet Wong remained defined by his Asianness – a thankless paradox, in light of Karloff’s unmistakable English background.

Luke avoids the pitfalls of Karloff’s interpretation by being Asian. Thus he needn’t worry about demeaning an “other,” and must only be concerned with not appearing like the Chinese equivalent of Stepin Fetchit – a role which series regular (or as he’d say, “legural”) Lee Tung Foo has inhabited ever since Mr. Wong, Detective. Instead, Luke plays Wong as a normal person – a completely radical interpretation of race circa 1940, to be sure! To maintain continuity, Luke channels Karloff’s uncharacteristic blandness, but turns it into a straight-faced, deadpan irony. Actually, there’s a bit more to Luke’s surprisingly subtle, varied Wong, which leads to another way in which Phantom of Chinatown is a shockingly atypical movie:

It is a prequel!


Prequels weren’t yet common in the film franchise vernacular by 1940, and Phantom of Chinatown doesn’t advertise this fact, but it remains evident that Luke’s Wong is a younger, less experienced version who would eventually morph into Karloff – race-bending and all!

To prove this is a prequel, and not just typical 1940 half-assed discontinuity (a commonplace occurrence among Poverty Row franchises), Luke’s Wong has only just arrived in San Francisco. He lives out of a hotel with Foo. He first meets Police Captain Street (Grant Withers, officially becoming the sole actor to weather the entire six-film series...eh, he and Foo), and solves his first murder mystery – drawn into it because of a coincidental Oriental connection (and no accidental Occidental!). There are even subtler details, such as the presence of a cop named Grady, whose unseen murder would eventually fuel Part Four, The Fatal Hour.

Sadly, this unofficial prequel status negates the possibility of Marjorie Reynolds’ fantastic Bobbie Logan returning, but Luke more than makes up for that deficiency.

So…prequel when they weren’t made, starring a Chinese actor in a leading role…it’s as though Rosen & Co. knew there was no need to perpetuate the series, and were simply shattering some well-shattered taboos. The result is, to be contrarian with average internet opinion (which holds, predicably, that Part One is always the best), I think the very best film in the Wong throng, made that way by the freedom of being the last.


Hell, even the desultory murder mystery angle is a little fresher this time around! Luke aside, the movie as a whole is a damn lot clearer under Rosen than any of Nigh’s efforts. (Because complex mysteries were never the Wong forte.) Recall, the cases formerly have involved such scintillating non-issues as check fraud, bank statements, multiple unofficial drafts of wills, radio contracts, shipping manifests, and other such effluvia I’ve struggled to give half a shit about. Phantom of Chinatown is instead about archeology! This is awesome!

The opening seems hardly to belong in the Wong swan song. Stock footage unspools about an archeological expedition into Darkest Mongolia, but here it’s legitimately presented as footage – that is, part of a post-trek lecture, so we needn’t play the game of pretending it fits in with Monogram’s rather less grainy original film stock. And in an era where newsreels were one’s window into the world, showing genuine footage of Mongolia has worth. Then, in the midst of this, we randomly flashback to a portion of the archeologists’ journey, simply because Monogram had a temple set lying around.


Cutting to the chase, lecturer Dr. Benton (Charles F. Miller) dies in full audience view when he sips some poisoned water. The suspect roster is comprised of his expedition partners, filling the usual roles – including Lover Couple and Random Crusty Old Dude. As Street and Wong separately look into the matter, for their separate reasons, the motive underlying all this becomes welcomely clear: The killer seeks a scroll. A scroll detailing the whereabouts of the Temple of Eternal Fire (!), and its treasure – which isn’t ancient relics, but oil deposits. Ooh, timely!

You know, phrasing a murder mystery in the genre trappings of an old Republic serial – i.e. if Indiana Jones did more detection, and less Nazi-punching – makes things so much easier to follow. Simply as a common movie motif, pulpy tomb raiding carries rules and connotations, whereas check fraud does not. What follows, for the rest of the film, is remarkably clear, all because “wants a scroll” is as simple as “wants the Ark,” or “the Maltese Falcon,” or “the microfilm.”


Such simplicity is in keeping with Phantom’s prequel status, since Luke’s Wong is just getting a feel for this whole gumshoe thing. He teams up quickly enough with Street. As an example of Phantom’s unique take on the mystery genre, Street and Wong even acknowledge how formulaic the story they’ve found themselves in appears. Each admits – this is the first time an old mystery film has copped to this standard – that the most obvious suspect is never the killer, at least in fiction. This attitude never gets too smarmily “meta,” partly because that wasn’t really an option circa 1940, but it shows Rosen approached Wong more critically than Nigh ever did.

The entire Wong series has distinguished itself by being racially progressive, at least for its time, underplaying or thumbing its nose at then-common notions of “Oriental exoticism.” Phantom of Chinatown takes this idea the furthest, beyond its casting of Luke, by populating a massive amount of the supporting cast with other Asians. The tradeoff of this spontaneous affirmative action is that there were hardly any other Asian actors then available. Lotus Long, long-time (heh?) regular series victim, is promoted to leading lady status, which seems a little beyond her acting abilities, though I’m glad they gave her the chance. Most other Asian actors appear to be complete amateurs. Overall, however, this is a minor problem.


Keye Luke is really the lucky key to Phantom of Chinatown – the mystery, though clear, is mostly disposable, and many other elements on hand aren’t distinct enough from the regular Wong throng (or any Monogram effort, for that matter). Wong is clearly learning his chops (suey – sorry, that’s a joke these films would make), like an incredibly minor variation on Casino Royale’s chief pleasures. That self-aware attitude serves Wong through the end, since he’s not a master detective, not in this version, but just a guy copying what the movies show him. So to finally catch the killer, Wong uses a Charlie Chan Special™ - without actual knowledge or clues, instead he fakes the appearance of such, and instead lays an ambush. The crook(s) is/are arrested, and Wong doesn’t even deign to conclude with a know-it-all expository lecture to fill us all it. That isn’t needed, for things are clear enough already. Events are fast paced, which more than offsets the procedural structure. The characters, especially Wong, are more engaging than usual, proving that is a mystery film’s true bread and butter.

Keye Luke never enjoyed another role nearly as prominent as this one, though he worked prolifically for the rest of a fruitful career, well into the 1980s. Most of Luke’s credits remain in the B-movie miasma of Monogram and their competitors, which is no slight to what he might’ve achieved in a later generation. Phantom of Chinatown, though generic, stands as an example of what might’ve been, and for that I am incredibly grateful.

Mr. Wong, No. 3 - Mr. Wong in Chinatown (1939)

A desperate Chinese woman (a returning Lotus Long in a new role, because Asian actresses were a rarity in 1939 Hollywood) seeks Mr. Wong’s help. While the butler goes to collect Mr. James Lee Wong (Boris Karloff), an assassin gathers. A dart strikes her the neck! Mr. Wong arrives only to find her dead, the lone clue a hastily scribbled message:

CAPTAIN J

So begins Mr. Wong in Chinatown. That’s a propulsive opening, giving Wong a murder to solve with greatest efficiency – only to be one-upped if a cadaver simply splatted in, “Flying Circus” style. We don’t even have suspects yet! Instead, Wong wends his way along a chronological trail of clues, Hangover style, making Mr. Wong in Chinatown structurally a very different beast.

And in the Wong series’ mania to imitate the Charlie Chan movies as much as possible, it’s done the impossible, and ripped off Chan’s The Chinese Ring…which wasn’t released until 1947…Hold up! Did Chan rip off Wong?!?!...Indeed he did, though I didn’t know it at the time! But that was when Chan had Wong, er, long been banished to Monogram Pictures, fulfilling Monogram’s desire to have the true Chan series, thus negating them of the need to create any more Mr. Wongs. So it goes, that on top of recycling sets, props, actors, footage and musical cues, Monogram also recycles scripts. But with an eight-year gap, one World War and no internet, who would’ve noticed? Seriously, we bloggers today are perhaps a far more demanding lot.


The similarities between Mr. Wong in Chinatown and The Chinese Ring are extreme! Like, I could probably just repost my old Chan write-up, and trade out Chan puns for Wong puns. Let’s explore the similarities.

The Chinese Ring likewise opens with a Chinese gal – I now reveal in each case she’s a Chinese princess (!) – killed in Wong-Chan’s San Francisco home (for Chan, this means an awkward relocation away from Honolulu, which only now becomes clear – it’s plagiary). The only difference is in name – Princess Lin Hwa here, Mei Ling there. And her note in that one concerns a Captain K. …Oh, and the Chan princess abbreviates: “Capt.,” not “Captain,” which seems more efficient when death is upon you, only now I’m really splitting hairs.


In either case, J or K (or Rowling?), it’s a pretty useless clue, once Wong-Chan discovers the Princess’ ship has two Captains J/K upon it. Today, that’s Jackson (George Lynn) and Jaime (William Royle). To spoil (thou hast been warned!), it turns out the Princess didn’t specify further, because they’re both culpable – not for murder, however, but something far more boring (i.e. more appropriate for the rather draggy Mr. Wong franchise)…

The Js (or Ks) are committing – bank fraud! That bored me to tears previously, and it’s no better in original form. Chinese check chat, Chan or Wong, does not belong. It’s all bank account this, forged signature that, assorted unrelated airplane nonsense this…


Back to the parallels! Wong-Chan’s investigation(s) leads him-them to San Francisco’s Chinatown, where big trouble evidently is afoot. Our Chinese detective hero, by either name, discovers the Princess’ maid in an apartment. After some brief dialogue, enough to justify the hiring of a second Asian-American actress, Wong-Chan leaves, then returns just as quickly, to find the woman now dead. That’s rather soon to get the formula-dictated second murder, but oh well.

As this is going on, there’s also a small, mute “Chinaman” for Charlie Wong to play charades with. Soon the mute is also dead – okay, we learn this much sooner in The Chinese Ring, because here the movies begin to part ways, though they follow the same broad plot structure. As an example of where they diverge, the earlier Mr. Wong in Chinatown makes its mute a midget, a bizarre choice which cannot help but get your attention. This midget choice is also essential for a future clue – it’s no arbitrary bit of oddity. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, employs a mute child, and child murder is far worse than midget murder (see In Bruges).


I’ll now relate, for the second halves, the broader details where the two pictures remain of a piece: Either way, Captains J/K lure Wong-Chan to an ambush, and take him hostage down to the docks. Then the police arrive (coincidentally in Chan’s case, due to careful scripting in Wong’s), and the day is saved. In the Chan entry, the Ks are the ultimate criminals, as for Wong the Js are just there as a distraction from the real murderer who is then surprisingly revealed. Odd how the earlier film is more intricate.

This is because, as a series, Mr. Wong has certain regular elements to rely upon, which the Chan entry didn’t, despite being Part Forty-Two (long series!). Basically, Mr. Wong has his recurring ally, Captain (J? no) Street (Grant Withers) of the SFPD. (In Mr. Wong in Chinatown, his first name inexplicably switches from Sam to Bill – something else audiences of the past wouldn’t dwell upon at quite the same length.) Street helps investigate, and is a foil for Wong’s Chan-like cleverness. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, was something of a Chan reboot (a new lead actor, for one), and thus ditched much of what Mr. Wong in Chinatown could build upon.


So Bill Street follows the same set of clues as Wong does, usually a few steps behind him. Thus it makes perfect sense for Street to barge in on the Js’ thuggishness towards the end, when in Chan the anonymous cops’ intrusion was much more left field. Plus, there are a few more interim pieces in the Wong version, such as an extra suspect (a thrilling and captivating suited banker named Davidson – Huntley Gordon) to give Wong just that little extra oomph.

All this gives me something to talk about, which is nice because on its own Mr. Wong in Chinatown isn’t hugely distinctive from the former Wongs. It loses that drawing room mystery element of Mr. Wong, Detective and The Mysterious Mr. Wong, in favor of something just the slightest bit more adventurous. It also ends with a clear cut climax, involving the pseudo-villainous Js, which nicely distracts before Wong whips out the “surprise” extra bad guy revelation. There’s also a little more focus upon Chinese elements, giving Mr. Wong in Chinatown the flavor it desperately needs.


Yes, the series is boring, but they’ve solved that…sort of…at least for one entry. Mr. Wong is, sadly, a lost cause, for in Karloff’s aim to not be racist (i.e. overtly Asian), his Wong is a non-entity. That leaves Street, who regains a little of his Mr. Wong, Detective surliness, without crossing back over into “asshole” (don’t cross Street – uh hyuck hyuck!). And with Wong wrong, Street instead intersects with a new character, to better bounce off of him: reporteress “Bobbie” Logan (Marjorie Reynolds). That character name would suggest, circa 1939, Torchie Blaine – or, in terms we might still understand, Lois Lane – Either way, Bobbie is a rip-off of another popular character, a tabloid newswoman full of spunk and gumption and sticktoitiveness and whatever, prone to creeping around, uncovering clues, and screwballing it up. And in Bobbie’s case, rather than needing rescue by Superman, she herself occasionally rescues Wong (from a taxicab explosion, e.g.), as Wong is starting to actively embrace uselessness by now.

Actually, Bobbie is what saves Mr. Wong in Chinatown, so I’m glad that I peaked ahead to learn she’ll become a franchise regular. She sort of steals the thunder from Wong, but so be it. More importantly, she enjoys a love-hate relationship with Street, who hates her but also somehow loves her. This has, from a certain skewed perspective, the makings of a typical 1930s screwball comedy, ala His Girl Friday, married to a generic murder mystery. This is element is, I’d wager, what will set the remaining Wongs apart from the general morass of mis-mustered Monogram murder.


There isn’t much more to say about Mr. Wong in Chinatown – lo, even with a couple of distinct angles, this is a rather anemic little flick. I’ll just fulfill my brief promise that the midget’s very midgetness comes into play later. One learns, by watching mysteries, that the most randomly extraneous, B.S. little factoids often come back to bite. Either I’m getting better at locating these hidden hints (such as the mattress in The Hangover, which is honestly the mystery movie most of us know best nowadays), or the Mr. Wong movies are that lousy at hiding them – I’d wager the latter.

Anyway, while Wong is engaging a certain character in the old “five minute chat because here’s this set we must use” routine, that character for no reason discusses burying a ferocious Great Dane (Scooby?) in the pet cemetery. Wong, ever a fount of totally obscure and arcane trivialities as the plot demands, knows enough of pet cemetery politics (!) to deduce, from that, that it’s actually the midget buried there. In a grave most folk couldn’t fit in. And this is the key which determines the whole denouement! Pretty neato little bunch of clues there, Mr. Wong in Chinatown. Too bad The Chinese Ring couldn’t’ve copied those.

Mr. Wong, No. 4 - The Fatal Hour (1939)

What is the purpose of Mr. Wong? Sure, the character is merely an opportunistic copy of other period Chinese detectives, like Charlie Chan or Mr. Moto, but with one notable difference – Mr. Wong’s characterization is not racist. (I can’t yet speak for Moto, but Chan is defined wholly by a “fortune cookie say” persona.) To avoid gross, broad stereotypes, instead Mr. Wong is defined by not seeming overtly Chinese – not too difficult, when actor Boris Karloff is himself the last person anyone would ever mistake for an Asian. Thus sometimes Monogram’s Mr. Wong series is surprisingly progressive, respecting non-white culture and doing other things that were mostly unheard of in 1939.

Too bad Mr. Wong, as the “Chinaman who isn’t a Chinaman,” doesn’t have a lot of other characteristics. The Mystery of Mr. Wong did well enough by being about stolen Chinese artifacts, where Wong’s normalcy could serve a point, but no longer. By Part Four, The Fatal Hour (as evidence of Wong’s boringness, his name no longer even appears in the titles), Wong’s a-Chineseness (or however you’d put it) is entirely dried out…Its only remaining use is a single incident where a racist thug calls Wong “that Chinese copper.” Karloff’s Wong responds with subtle indifference – or blandness, rather. Otherwise, there is no element in The Fatal Hour which informs Wong in any way. He admits so much himself, stating that this latest murder mystery has basically nothing to do with him.


So Mr. Wong fades into the background of his own series. He remains, not as a human personality, but entirely as an anthropomorphized plot device. These murder mysteries ain’t gonna solve themselves, and the cops are pretty worthless, so we need Wong to selflessly steer everyone in the proper direction. Then the climax comes along, and Wong can reveal the murderer, exposit a little in retrospect, the end. These movies wouldn’t end without him, but they wouldn’t even function were he the focus.


Instead, the true star of the Mr. Wong films, more and more, is his San Francisco PD counterpart, Bill Street (Grant Withers). Street is free to be as ineffective as he wishes, without any complaints about misrepresentation – except from police officers. He is the most engaging character of the series, which isn’t actually saying much. Street’s disposition can vary wildly from film to film, going from a hot-headed, tactless rabble-rouser to a well-meaning detective who’s simply in over his head. With the plots increasingly perfunctory, and Wong MIA more and more, Street reverts to his jerkass ways – this isn’t ideal, but it’s better than nothing.

Actually, promoting Street up to unofficial “lead” status (only with Wong’s name forever ahead of his in lights, the poor douchebag) is sort of like creating an entire movie out of Paul Gleason’s Die Hard character (you know, the stupidest of the cops, who was still somehow in charge…until the Johnsons showed up). It’s kind of telling that The Fatal Hour coasts on that sort of characterization, with Boris Karloff that ineffectual.


Ostensibly aiding Street – not necessarily in the investigations, but in being remotely entertaining – is his female reporter counterpart, “Bobbie” Logan (Marjorie Reynolds). In fact, since her introduction in the previous Mr. Wong in Chinatown, Ms. Logan has been the best thing about the series. Basically, she’s Lois Lane, only with a habit of saving others. Sadly, The Fatal Hour doesn’t really know what do to with her – which should be to place her and Street into something like a cheap-ass version of His Girl Friday meets The Thin Man. This doesn’t happen in The Fatal Hour, which relegates Bobbie almost as badly as it does Wong – I suppose respecting women and the Chinese through competent characterizations is one thing, though it leaves a B-movie studio of the era rather ill-prepared to do anything with them. Sigh.

Actually, it seems the majority of The Fatal Hour’s efforts are wasted on new characters, the suspects of today’s murder mystery – which is such a desultory affair, the first line of dialogue (that is, the first scene as well) simply announces by fiat that some guy Grady is dead, yadda yadda. It’s more efficient even than Mr. Wong in Chinatown’s introductory princess murder (!), but in a way which removes all dramatic impetus.


The Fatal Hour is dramatically anemic, because director William Nigh no longer has any idea (or inspiration) for how to use his three recurring characters. Instead, as said, it’s all so much attention lavished upon the lesser one-off supporting characters. Now…the plot of The Fatal Hour is, assuredly, nothing too complex – something to do with murder, naturally, on top of personal politics, dance clubs, and radio (that astonishing new space age invention of the future!) – I’d’ve been able to follow this story most easily, had I been willing to do so. The fact is that murder mysteries are often the least important detail of murder mystery movies (again, look to The Thin Man for the highly entertaining reason why). Thus, between overexposure to Wongs (such as it is) in a short time (plus over 40 Chans previously under my belt), I am somewhat apathetic to the prosaic concerns of a mystery film. This is an admission that most film reviewers, even fly-by-night blogger types, should rarely admit to: Actively not paying attention to a movie.


Really, there’s not much to say about The Fatal Hour which I haven’t gone over in former Wongs – at this rate, my final post on this series will be in the negative word count. Maybe it’ll just be pictures. For now, though, there’s at least one final bit of scripted strangeness which I cannot help but comment upon…

Again, the lone detail by which Wong solves the case is a mightily prominent hangnail. This time, it concerns radio technology of 1939. Specifically, Wong takes minutes (a waste, given his reduced screen time) to learn from a salesman all about Victrola’s latest toaster-sized remote controls. It’s the wonder of the ages, now you can change between the three old-timey pre-rock ‘n’ roll radio stations from a distance, like a spaceman or a wizard! I understand the tech was new in ’39, and required exposition to an incredulous mass of filmgoers, but it dates The Fatal Hour something fierce! (Oh, like The Fatal Hour was ever not going to be dated.) I’d wager many a “CSI,” so enamored of the latest nanotech gobbledygook or whatnot, will share this same fate.

What’s interesting is just how radio remotes figure into cracking the case. You see, it concerns the timing of a murder, which coincides roughly with the radio being turned on. Now, the villain turned on this radio from two–hundred feet out (thus somehow expanding the murder window by several hours, which I do not understand), but why?! Well, because in 1939, when a radio turns on, anywhere, if you hear it, you run to it, slobbering obediently like one of Pavlov’s dogs, eager for the latest pap from the shimmering voice box. Again, yeah, new technology and all, it’s old hat now, though I suppose people at E3 or wherever act similarly idiotic at its latest quivering gewgaws. Still, if I heard my neighbor’s radio turn on really loud, my first instinct wouldn’t be to rush over so as to stand docily before the machine in awe. I would demand he turn the damn volume down already – sorry, I’m working through some personal issues here.


Um…and that’s The Fatal Hour, a movie so disposable and boring, my writing quality has devolved to 2010 levels. Huzzah!

Mr. Wong, No. 3 - Mr. Wong in Chinatown (1939)

A desperate Chinese woman (a returning Lotus Long in a new role, because Asian actresses were a rarity in 1939 Hollywood) seeks Mr. Wong’s help. While the butler goes to collect Mr. James Lee Wong (Boris Karloff), an assassin gathers. A dart strikes her the neck! Mr. Wong arrives only to find her dead, the lone clue a hastily scribbled message:

CAPTAIN J

So begins Mr. Wong in Chinatown. That’s a propulsive opening, giving Wong a murder to solve with greatest efficiency – only to be one-upped if a cadaver simply splatted in, “Flying Circus” style. We don’t even have suspects yet! Instead, Wong wends his way along a chronological trail of clues, Hangover style, making Mr. Wong in Chinatown structurally a very different beast.

And in the Wong series’ mania to imitate the Charlie Chan movies as much as possible, it’s done the impossible, and ripped off Chan’s The Chinese Ring…which wasn’t released until 1947…Hold up! Did Chan rip off Wong?!?!...Indeed he did, though I didn’t know it at the time! But that was when Chan had Wong, er, long been banished to Monogram Pictures, fulfilling Monogram’s desire to have the true Chan series, thus negating them of the need to create any more Mr. Wongs. So it goes, that on top of recycling sets, props, actors, footage and musical cues, Monogram also recycles scripts. But with an eight-year gap, one World War and no internet, who would’ve noticed? Seriously, we bloggers today are perhaps a far more demanding lot.


The similarities between Mr. Wong in Chinatown and The Chinese Ring are extreme! Like, I could probably just repost my old Chan write-up, and trade out Chan puns for Wong puns. Let’s explore the similarities.

The Chinese Ring likewise opens with a Chinese gal – I now reveal in each case she’s a Chinese princess (!) – killed in Wong-Chan’s San Francisco home (for Chan, this means an awkward relocation away from Honolulu, which only now becomes clear – it’s plagiary). The only difference is in name – Princess Lin Hwa here, Mei Ling there. And her note in that one concerns a Captain K. …Oh, and the Chan princess abbreviates: “Capt.,” not “Captain,” which seems more efficient when death is upon you, only now I’m really splitting hairs.


In either case, J or K (or Rowling?), it’s a pretty useless clue, once Wong-Chan discovers the Princess’ ship has two Captains J/K upon it. Today, that’s Jackson (George Lynn) and Jaime (William Royle). To spoil (thou hast been warned!), it turns out the Princess didn’t specify further, because they’re both culpable – not for murder, however, but something far more boring (i.e. more appropriate for the rather draggy Mr. Wong franchise)…

The Js (or Ks) are committing – bank fraud! That bored me to tears previously, and it’s no better in original form. Chinese check chat, Chan or Wong, does not belong. It’s all bank account this, forged signature that, assorted unrelated airplane nonsense this…


Back to the parallels! Wong-Chan’s investigation(s) leads him-them to San Francisco’s Chinatown, where big trouble evidently is afoot. Our Chinese detective hero, by either name, discovers the Princess’ maid in an apartment. After some brief dialogue, enough to justify the hiring of a second Asian-American actress, Wong-Chan leaves, then returns just as quickly, to find the woman now dead. That’s rather soon to get the formula-dictated second murder, but oh well.

As this is going on, there’s also a small, mute “Chinaman” for Charlie Wong to play charades with. Soon the mute is also dead – okay, we learn this much sooner in The Chinese Ring, because here the movies begin to part ways, though they follow the same broad plot structure. As an example of where they diverge, the earlier Mr. Wong in Chinatown makes its mute a midget, a bizarre choice which cannot help but get your attention. This midget choice is also essential for a future clue – it’s no arbitrary bit of oddity. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, employs a mute child, and child murder is far worse than midget murder (see In Bruges).


I’ll now relate, for the second halves, the broader details where the two pictures remain of a piece: Either way, Captains J/K lure Wong-Chan to an ambush, and take him hostage down to the docks. Then the police arrive (coincidentally in Chan’s case, due to careful scripting in Wong’s), and the day is saved. In the Chan entry, the Ks are the ultimate criminals, as for Wong the Js are just there as a distraction from the real murderer who is then surprisingly revealed. Odd how the earlier film is more intricate.

This is because, as a series, Mr. Wong has certain regular elements to rely upon, which the Chan entry didn’t, despite being Part Forty-Two (long series!). Basically, Mr. Wong has his recurring ally, Captain (J? no) Street (Grant Withers) of the SFPD. (In Mr. Wong in Chinatown, his first name inexplicably switches from Sam to Bill – something else audiences of the past wouldn’t dwell upon at quite the same length.) Street helps investigate, and is a foil for Wong’s Chan-like cleverness. The Chinese Ring, meanwhile, was something of a Chan reboot (a new lead actor, for one), and thus ditched much of what Mr. Wong in Chinatown could build upon.


So Bill Street follows the same set of clues as Wong does, usually a few steps behind him. Thus it makes perfect sense for Street to barge in on the Js’ thuggishness towards the end, when in Chan the anonymous cops’ intrusion was much more left field. Plus, there are a few more interim pieces in the Wong version, such as an extra suspect (a thrilling and captivating suited banker named Davidson – Huntley Gordon) to give Wong just that little extra oomph.

All this gives me something to talk about, which is nice because on its own Mr. Wong in Chinatown isn’t hugely distinctive from the former Wongs. It loses that drawing room mystery element of Mr. Wong, Detective and The Mysterious Mr. Wong, in favor of something just the slightest bit more adventurous. It also ends with a clear cut climax, involving the pseudo-villainous Js, which nicely distracts before Wong whips out the “surprise” extra bad guy revelation. There’s also a little more focus upon Chinese elements, giving Mr. Wong in Chinatown the flavor it desperately needs.


Yes, the series is boring, but they’ve solved that…sort of…at least for one entry. Mr. Wong is, sadly, a lost cause, for in Karloff’s aim to not be racist (i.e. overtly Asian), his Wong is a non-entity. That leaves Street, who regains a little of his Mr. Wong, Detective surliness, without crossing back over into “asshole” (don’t cross Street – uh hyuck hyuck!). And with Wong wrong, Street instead intersects with a new character, to better bounce off of him: reporteress “Bobbie” Logan (Marjorie Reynolds). That character name would suggest, circa 1939, Torchie Blaine – or, in terms we might still understand, Lois Lane – Either way, Bobbie is a rip-off of another popular character, a tabloid newswoman full of spunk and gumption and sticktoitiveness and whatever, prone to creeping around, uncovering clues, and screwballing it up. And in Bobbie’s case, rather than needing rescue by Superman, she herself occasionally rescues Wong (from a taxicab explosion, e.g.), as Wong is starting to actively embrace uselessness by now.

Actually, Bobbie is what saves Mr. Wong in Chinatown, so I’m glad that I peaked ahead to learn she’ll become a franchise regular. She sort of steals the thunder from Wong, but so be it. More importantly, she enjoys a love-hate relationship with Street, who hates her but also somehow loves her. This has, from a certain skewed perspective, the makings of a typical 1930s screwball comedy, ala His Girl Friday, married to a generic murder mystery. This is element is, I’d wager, what will set the remaining Wongs apart from the general morass of mis-mustered Monogram murder.


There isn’t much more to say about Mr. Wong in Chinatown – lo, even with a couple of distinct angles, this is a rather anemic little flick. I’ll just fulfill my brief promise that the midget’s very midgetness comes into play later. One learns, by watching mysteries, that the most randomly extraneous, B.S. little factoids often come back to bite. Either I’m getting better at locating these hidden hints (such as the mattress in The Hangover, which is honestly the mystery movie most of us know best nowadays), or the Mr. Wong movies are that lousy at hiding them – I’d wager the latter.

Anyway, while Wong is engaging a certain character in the old “five minute chat because here’s this set we must use” routine, that character for no reason discusses burying a ferocious Great Dane (Scooby?) in the pet cemetery. Wong, ever a fount of totally obscure and arcane trivialities as the plot demands, knows enough of pet cemetery politics (!) to deduce, from that, that it’s actually the midget buried there. In a grave most folk couldn’t fit in. And this is the key which determines the whole denouement! Pretty neato little bunch of clues there, Mr. Wong in Chinatown. Too bad The Chinese Ring couldn’t’ve copied those.