Hello, my little fuzzy wishwashes! Alas, "Stoopnocracy is Peachy!" has already been taken by epinionator Sloucho as the best possible title for a review of “International House,” and he's done a fine review as well. Unfortunately, he’s also charged me with writing my own review of it, so where to begin?

How about I begin with a trip to the video store, a bottle or two of Syrah, and several slices of Pizza Orgasmica, which is where it began for me thanks to a friend’s memory of having been highly disturbed by something in this film as a child 30 years before.

“Stoopnocracy is peachy” (see Sloucho’s review for explanation, though any explanation is hardly necessary) pretty much expertly sums up the atmosphere of “International House,” the delightfully lighthearted, free-wheeling, loose-legged 1933 Edward Sutherland hodge-podge of comedy skits and musical numbers tied together by an ingenious yet simple and almost wholly irrelevant plot, and starring W.C. Fields, George Burns and Gracie Allen, Bela Lugosi, Peggy Hopkins Joyce, “Baby” Rose Marie, Cab Calloway and numerous other entertainment luminaries of the 30’s.

The story begins as business concerns from around the world descend on Shanghai (much like they seem to be doing today) – and travel from there to the fictitious Chinese city of Wu-Hu (needless to say, “International House” suffers from a mild political incorrectness, but far less so than many other films of the time). They’re in China to bid on renowned inventor Dr. Wong’s latest invention, the Radioscope, essentially a radio that transmits visual images. In other words, it’s a television, which gives “International House” a prescient and piquant sort of media meta-consciousness, coming, as it does, smack dab in the middle of film’s brief heyday between the demise of vaudeville, the elbowing aside of radio, and the ascendancy of the tube.

The plot, such as it is, gets its biggest twist (and a bigger boost in energy) when drunken aviator Professor Quail, played by W.C. Fields, goes off course on his way to Kansas City and, not entirely unlike Dorothy landing in Oz, sets down his heli-plane in the midst of the floor show going on in Wu-Hu’s glamorous International House hotel (the grand hotel comedy film should probably be awarded its own genre, in which “International House” would squarely fit). Confusion ensues when Fields is mistaken by Dr. Wong for the American business representative, who is sequestered away in a subplot involving a jealous fiancée, a desert trip with Peggy Hopkins Joyce (playing herself), and an erroneous diagnosis of measles. There are a few other subplots entwining the film’s events, but plot is not really much of a concern at all in “International House” except as a convenient vehicle to carry the musical numbers and comic sketches – and the big Busby Berkeley-style floorshow - of which the film consists. In large part, these are broadcast on Dr. Wong’s Radioscope, which continually has trouble picking up the frequency of the bicycle race he promises his prospective bidders, and instead gives us images of cows in fields, a young Rudy Vallee singing performance (hilariously interrupted by Fields’ inability to withstand it), and even Fields’ departure on his ‘round the world flight, making the Radioscope a nifty device for propelling the plot as well as a somewhat ingenious way to create a film out of a low budget and plenty of bits and pieces of random footage. Despite the low budget quality, some of the set pieces are breathtakingly beautiful - and clever. “Casino Royale” meets “Grand Hotel” meets “Shanghai Gesture” as “International House” dissolves into comedic chaos with an international flavor, highlighted by some fine and fun performances.

One of the most unexpected ones, surprising in tone, and the real emotional anchor of the film, is – aw heck, I’m not about to give it away. Let me just say that this is the scene that had so troubled my friend’s impressionable young mind. For me, seeing it as an unimpressionable adult, I found it unforgettable but only mildly disturbing, the latter primarily because the two thoughts competing for space in my brain implausibly involved: a) Dreyer’s famous close-ups of Maria Falconetti as Joan of Arc, and b) JonBenet Ramsey- not the horrible murder, fortunately, but the creepy child-woman pageant performances. (I take some solace, I think, from Sloucho’s having had pretty much the same reaction).

What I most love about “International House” is its giddy, unrestrained freedom. Little or nothing is expected in this film, which makes it breathlessly anathema to almost anything that comes out of Hollywood these days, with the possible exception of “Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me,” a film with an equally endearing sort of anything-goes joy. And joy is certainly something one doesn’t see much of from Hollywood, or from anywhere else, for that matter, which is why I give “International House” four great big shining stars, with happy faces penciled in the middle of each.

Anyway, while I’m sure my thorough enjoyment of “International House” was no doubt helped along by the Syrah and the orgasmically good pizza (heck, I don’t even LIKE pizza that much, but you gotta try this place when you’re in San Francisco), I’m not about to give the refreshments credit for this film’s utter delightfulness. While it may never make a list of the greatest films ever made, for me, it’s certainly one of the most fun. My little calliopes, Stoopnocracy is peachy indeed.


Recommended:
Yes

Viewing Format: VHS
Video Occasion: Fit for Friday Evening