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7/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 7/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Hollywood on Parade No. A-11 remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Honestly? Only if you are the kind of person who enjoys watching 90-year-old curiosities at 2 AM on a Tuesday. If you want a narrative, you'll be bored out of your mind. If you love seeing stars act slightly uncomfortable in front of a microphone, you’re in for a treat.
It’s essentially a publicity reel stretched into a short film. Nobody is acting. Everyone is just performing 'themselves' in a way that feels totally unnatural.
There’s this moment where Frank Fay is hosting, and the energy in the room feels completely flat, yet he’s acting like he’s at the biggest gala of the century. It’s infectious in a bad way.
Seeing Barbara Stanwyck here is jarring. You’re used to her being the coolest person in the room in something like Blockade, but here she’s just expected to be charming on cue. It’s like watching a lion act like a house cat.
There isn't a plot. There isn't even really a point. You just drift from one star to the next, waiting for them to say something profound, but they mostly just talk about the weather or how much they love Hollywood.
I found myself staring at the background furniture more than the actors. Some of the sets look like they were built out of cardboard and hope. It’s charming in a 'please stop' kind of way.
If you've seen enough of these 1930s variety shorts, you know exactly what the rhythm is. It never breaks. It never surprises you. It just keeps moving until the credits roll, and then you’re left wondering why you spent twelve minutes on this.
It’s not good, but it’s fascinating as a relic. Kind of like finding an old sandwich under your bed—you shouldn't touch it, but you have to look at it for a second. 🥪