It was with a disconsolate heart that I learned that the United States Film Registry has not yet included Josh Binney’s “Hi De Ho” (1947). Have any of its attendant scholars taken a gander at the picture, now made available as a Blu-Ray by Kino Lorber? It is, admittedly, a patchwork affair. Binney’s point-and-shoot direction will curl the toes of the most charitable auteurist. The plot is cursory, the acting stilted and the production values meager. “Hi De Ho” is no lost masterpiece.

In its particulars, however, the film is masterful and, as such, meets the Registry’s criterion of being “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.” Take the six minute segment featuring the Miller Brothers and Lois. You want pyrotechnics? You got ’em: Three tap-dancers working with consummate skill, astonishing athleticism and streamlined elegance. The group’s specialty was performing on a series of increasingly narrow platforms. Whether dancing on terra-firma or narrowly perched above it, they amaze.

The Miller Brothers and Lois toured the country with headliners like jazz saxophonist Jimmy Lunceford and the Duke Ellington orchestra; they also did a stint with, of all people, Chico Marx. But their act is recorded primarily through journalistic means. Variety commended the trio for its “whimsical intricacies” and “sockeroo acrobatics.” In terms of visual documentation, “Hi De Ho” is all we have. A number of class acts have been lost to history. That we have the Miller Brothers and Lois on film is a gift.

That ain’t all, particularly if you take into account the musician around which “Hi De Ho” had been configured, Cab Calloway. By the late 1940s, Calloway had established himself as a consummate showman and significant force in popular culture. Given the segregated nature of American life at that time, this was no mean feat. “Minnie the Moocher” was a huge hit of 1931. Who could resist its call-and-response refrain and the salacious story of a “red hot hoochie coocher?”

Though Calloway averred that he didn’t have it “too tough” with racism, he was keenly aware of how a flamboyant stage persona and sometimes suggestive lyrics could be construed by audiences, not least in the African-American community. “How can we train our children to aim higher in life,” wrote a correspondent to the Black newspaper Pittsburgh Courier, “after seeing and listening to the Calloway rhythm?” 

As my colleague Will Friedwald noted back in the 1990s, Calloway invariably “treaded the line between good taste and bad.” The proud son of Rochester, New York, died at the age of 86 on November 18, 1994. The concomitant hosannas to Calloway’s contributions to world culture were all but universal.

Though Calloway appeared in Hollywood fare like “The Big Broadcast” (1932), “International House” (1933) and “Stormy Weather” (1943), “Hi De Ho” was produced as a “race film” — that is to say, a picture geared toward a specific audience and featuring performers who weren’t necessarily welcomed by mainstream studios. 

Many of these films, according to University of Chicago professor Jacqueline Stewart, were geared toward “demonstrating the moral readiness of the Race to assume full U.S. citizenship.” Binney’s picture doesn’t quite hit that mark, being a less than wholesome tale of gangsters, molls, fisticuffs and gunplay. But it does offer a welcome opportunity for Calloway and company to strut their stuff.

And strut they do, through a plot that is little more than a washline upon which to hang musical numbers. These include Calloway’s startling acapella version of “Minnie Was a Hepcat,” a shticked-up rendition of “St. James Infirmary,” and the sweet and funny “Little Old Lady From Baltimore” as sung by the Peters Sisters, a trio that is, I am happy to report, more documented in audio and visual formats than the Miller Brothers and Lois. 

A vital component of American life is preserved during the run of “Hi De Ho.” We should be grateful to Kino Lorber for reminding us of its primacy.