Clara Bow, Queer Visibility and the Wild Ride That Is 'Call Her Savage' (1932)

In my recent dive into Hollywood’s Pre-Code era—the brief, glorious window between the dawn of sound and the strict enforcement of the Hays Code in 1934—I stumbled upon Call Her Savage, a 1932 talkie starring the one and only Clara Bow. I went in expecting melodrama, scandal and a bit of Pre-Code spice. What I didn’t expect was one of the earliest onscreen depictions of a queer-friendly space in a mainstream Hollywood film. And discovering this during Pride Month felt serendipitous in the best way. (More on that in a moment—trust me, it’s worth sticking around.)

But first let’s talk about Clara Bow. If you're not already familiar, Bow was the “It Girl” of the 1920s—the original one, in fact. Her breakout performance in the 1927 silent comedy It earned her that moniker, and she quickly became a symbol of modern womanhood, sexual independence and flapper-era glamour. From 1927 to 1930, she consistently ranked among the top two box-office stars in the U.S. Bow’s distinctive look—bobbed hair, wide eyes and cupid’s bow lips—inspired none other than Betty Boop. The personality and appearance of Max Fleischer’s iconic cartoon flapper were modeled in part on Bow, and Bow’s character in It, Betty Lou Spence, even shared a first name with the animated star. (It probably didn’t hurt that both Bow and Fleischer were under the Paramount banner at the time.) And while many silent-era icons struggled with the transition to sound, Bow managed it—though not without cost. She made a handful of talkies before retiring in 1933, citing the stress and technical demands of sound production as major reasons for stepping away from Hollywood.

As for Call Her Savage, it’s a film that defies easy description—part Western, part scandal-sheet melodrama, part cautionary tale and completely bonkers in the best way. Clara Bow gets into so many scrapes, it might even qualify as an action movie. Directed by John Francis Dillon (a veteran of the silent era), the film was produced by Fox Film as part of a two-picture deal Bow had signed with the studio. The screenplay, adapted by Oscar-winning writer Edwin J. Burke (who would later write Shirley Temple favorites like Bright Eyes and The Littlest Rebel), was based on a novel by Tiffany Thayer. The project was developed specifically for Bow by her friend and producer Sam Bork

Bow plays Nasa Springer, a high-spirited young woman whose tempestuous nature clashes with her straightlaced father, a wealthy railroad magnate in the Southwest. The film opens with a flashback to a wagon train led by Nasa’s maternal grandfather, then shifts to early scenes of her parents’ marriage—and her lonely mother’s “friendship” with a Native man named Ronasa. We meet Bow’s Nasa as a teenager in Texas, introduced in a series of gloriously Pre-Code moments: whipping a rattlesnake to death, whipping her “half-breed” friend Moonglow (played by Gilbert Roland, who had once been briefly engaged to Bow) and wrestling with the family dog in a tight, low-cut blouse.

Rrrowrr!

Hoping to “tame” her, Nasa’s father sends her to an elite finishing school in Chicago, where she earns the nickname “Dynamite” for her nightlife exploits.  She impulsively marries a charming cad (played by Monroe Owsley), defying her father’s wishes. At this point, her exasperated father cuts her off emotionally, telling her to contact his lawyer if she needs money. On their wedding night, Owsley’s character makes it clear he intends to keep seeing a socialite played by Thelma Todd. (The earlier catfight between Todd and Bow is one of the film’s most memorable scenes.)

Nasa ends up in New Orleans, where—broke and desperate—she turns to prostitution to pay for a doctor’s prescription for her sick infant. In a bitter twist, she learns immediately afterward that she’s inherited $100,000 from her grandfather (about $2.3 million today). She then heads to New York, determined to “get even with life.”

Alongside all the melodrama, Call Her Savage showcases some surprisingly sophisticated early cinematic techniques. As an early talkie, it still leans on silent-era visual grammar—especially in how it handles the passage of time. A spinning clock marks the long hours; later, during a quiet, emotional scene between Nasa and her mother, the camera lingers on a window as day shifts to night and later from night to dawn—a beautifully understated metaphor. There’s even a brisk little montage of bills piling up, silently tracking Nasa’s reckless spending.

In one striking moment, Bow is framed from the perspective of a shattered mirror—a shot that feels almost Hitchcockian in its psychological intensity.

And sound, still a new toy in 1932, is used with intention: a bird call becomes a key auditory cue, triggering a memory that leads to a pivotal revelation. These touches may seem minor, but they’re a powerful reminder of how quickly filmmakers were adapting to the demands—and possibilities—of sound cinema.

And then there’s the film’s glorious Pre-Code audacity. Aside from Bow’s braless dog-wrestling and a silhouetted undressing scene featuring Monroe Owsley, there’s a veiled reference to venereal disease (a character is said to suffer from “an affliction that affects his mind”) and a scene of attempted spousal rape. But the most extraordinary—and for modern viewers, perhaps the most touching—moment comes in a brief scene set in Greenwich Village.

In New York, Nasa visits a café described as a hangout for “wild poets and anarchists.” The sequence is radical for its time: same-sex couples with arms around each other, two flamboyant men singing a campy little number about being chambermaids on a battleship (yes, really) and an atmosphere of carefree bohemian acceptance. Film historian Richard Barrios notes that the script explicitly referenced “a few pansies and a scattering of lesbians”—not just rare, but practically unheard of in Hollywood at the time. Even more surprising: these characters aren’t mocked, punished or made tragic. They’re simply there—visible, singing, laughing and living—just a few years before the Hays Code would banish such depictions for decades.

Call Her Savage may not be a perfect film. It’s wild and uneven, and it leans into some crude stereotypes about Native Americans (though, to its credit, the two Native male characters with pivotal roles are also the film’s most empathetic men). But part of what makes it so compelling is that very unpredictability—its flaws, its tonal swings, its refusal to play it safe. You’re never quite sure what’s coming next, and that chaotic energy is a big part of its charm. It’s also far more radical than many films made decades later. And for one dazzling moment in a smoky Village café, it lets the queer community take up space onscreen—not as villains, not as punchlines, but as part of life’s grand, messy, wonderful tapestry.