Hollywood Spectator (1937-39)

Page Eight May 8, 1937 vfew — that their actors must be trained in stage acting, not in screen acting. Clad in the impenetrable armor of their confidence in their judgement, it is impossible for them to comprehend that these two young people in Kid Galahad proved the soundness of the Spectator's contentions regarding screen acting. They do not act, both of them lacking the age and experience essential to their mastery of anything they set out to learn. Under Mike Curtiz’s wise guidance they present themselves, doing what they would do in real life if the same situations and conditions confronted them. Thus they give perfect screen performances. They are new to us, thus making it easier for our imaginations to accept them as the people they play. We do not judge them by standards they previously had established. Properly handled, each will become an outstanding screen favorite. w ff ITH them in the cast we have Bette Davis and Edward Robinson whom we have seen so frequently we cannot escape judging their performances by the standards they have set for themselves. That constitutes the handicap they face when they strive to make us believe they are the persons they play. They have a much longer road to travel. Each of them plays excellently, neither ever was more impressive. Several times Robinson has been given much the same part to play, and once more a bullet puts an end to his appearances. I do not see that his death was the logical demand of the story, but it is not an important objection. Bette plays what really is a secondary role, but her complete mastery of it and the sheer force of her personality, make it stand out as a beautifully etched characterization. She plays it with quiet self-effacement, with no histrionic flights to remind us that she is an oustanding dramatic actress. As it appears to me, Bette revealed that she is a regular trouper when she consented to assume the part. Humphrey Bogart plays a character of the sort he should be permitted to get away from, that of a dead-pan gangster of whom the public at large must be getting as tired as I am. I cannot understand how producers can fail to realize that Bogart is the ideal type for sympathetic roles. Our old friend, Harry Carey, is excellent in the role of a trainer of fighters, and Soledad Jiminez gives us another of her little acting cameos. Joe Cunningham makes one of the most convincing newspaper men I have seen in any picture. Various other small parts and bits were handled with a skill which reflects credit on both players and director. M. K. Jerome and Jack Scholl, composer and lyricist, contributed a tuneful song which was sung effectively by Bette Davis. IKE CURTIZ performed a miracle in giving such inherently messy story material such strong and evenly maintained sentimental appeal. The esthetics of the prize ring and prize-fight racketeers have not been developed quite up to the standards set by the higher and less robust arts, but Mike serves them to us in a manner which holds our unwavering attention during the entire running of the film. We have had no finer examble of quiet, human scenes being presented with such understanding and compelling force as to prompt a large audience to reward them with the hearty applause usually accorded only big, dramatic moments in previewed pictures. The vigor of the prize fight scenes — the whole thing is sprinkled with them — makes them as thrilling as real fights can be. It is something to the credit of a director who in one picture can handle a tender, boy and girl love scene and a hectic battle between two pugilists, with equal authority. Sam Bischoff, associate producer, adds another to his long list of worthy screen productions. He has succeeded in giving us a prize fight picture which surely will be liked by those who do not like prize fights. Seton I. Miller’s screen play, Curtiz’s direction, and Sam’s production knowledge combined to give us a series of fistic combats which are not merely exhibitions of physical skill. They are fought before a background of emotional significance, to the accompaniment of our sentimental interest in the effect they will have on two young people for whom we have developed deep affection. And that is wh^ you should see Kid Galahad even if you regard prize fighting as too vulgar for words. Assault on Question Mark SHALL WE DANCE? RKO. Producer, Pandro S. Berman; director, Mark Sandrich; story, Lee Loeb and Harold Buchman; adaptation, P. J. Wolfson; screen play, Allan Scott and Ernest Pagano; music, George Gershwin; lyrics, Ira Gershwin; photographer, David Abel; special effects, Vernon L. Walker; dance director, Hermes Pan; ballet director, Harry Losee; musical director, Nathaniel Shilkret; film editor, William Hamilton; assistant director, Argyle Nelson. Cast: Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Edward Everett Horton, Eric Blore, Jerome Cowan, Kettii Gallian, William Brisbane, Harriet Hoctor, Ann Shoemaker. II7HEN RKO eliminates at least twenty minutes of rr the story of Shall We Dance? and puts a question mark after the main title, it will have another AstaireRogers picture which should duplicate the success each of the preceding ones has scored at the box-office. Taking out some of the story will be a simple matter of weilding shears to snip off the film some of the nonessential story fragments which made the picture as previewed drag to the yawn-producing point. But putting a question mark after the main title — well, that is quite another matter. RKO executives already have considered gravely the question of the question mark and have handed down a decision of tremendous import, one which shatters what hitherto had been regarded as a fixed principle of punctuation. Without warning they shake the faith of all educated people in the things they learned at school and college, and assume a dictatorship over language-usage which will bring a blush to the leaves of all the books on the world’s library shelves. The executives, after due deliberation, handed down the decision that the interrogation point is unconstitutional. And now at a time when we are harassed by strikes at home and war scares abroad — when we would prefer to devote all our thought to Wally Simpson’s wedding and Bob Feller’s pitching arm — we have the abolition of the question mark to worry obout. /aRE we free men or are we slaves? Beg pardon! Are we free men or are we slaves. Are we going to stand for it.