Screenland (Nov 1939–Apr 1940)

THE UNDER-PUP— Universal Refreshing, lively entertainment as gay and youthful as its little-girl star, the new Pasternak discovery, Gloria Jean. Don't ask me if this eleven-year-old is worthy of her appointment as heiress to Deanna Durbin's kid-star crown. Gloria Jean is as different from Deanna as Lombard from Shearer — she's pert when Deanna is serene, daredevilish as Durbin is demure. Her voice may eventually thrill you_ as Deanna's does, but of course right now it's a nice, clear kid's voice, doing its best with songs far beyond its scope. But make no mistake, Gloria Jean is here to stay. She has a shining intelligence, a clean-cut loveliness, and best of all a bubbling sense of fun that's irresistible as brought into action by the appealingly simple story of her first picture. She plays Pip-Emma, rich little poor girl beloved by her doting family, who wins a summer at a poor little rich girls' camp, where her gaiety, impudence, and common sense not only enliven but reform the haughty sub-sub debs — to say nothing of encouraging the romance between Robert Cummings and Nan Grey. Cummings is grand as the camp athletic coach. C. Aubrey Smith as Pip-Emma's old fix-it of^ a grandfather is a joy; and you'll howl at Billy Gilbert and antics of the two bratty boys who play his sons, Kenneth Brown and Bill Lenhart. Virginia Weidler is best of the big cast of little girls. FIFTH AVENUE GIRL— RKO-Radio AND this picture isn't "another" something, either. Ginger Rogers' latest falls far short of the spontaneous and sparkling standard set by "Bachelor Mother." Comparisons are simply odorous, but because Ginger uses the identical technique in developing the characterization of this current heroine that served her so well in the previous picture, she just naturally invites 'em; and I say her new portrayal is simply a carbon copy of that utterly winning bachelor salesgirl who captured David Niven. This time, she's an unemployed Cinderella who meets a mature millionaire on a park bench, celebrates his birthday with him, and accepts a job in his home as "rival" to his petulant wife. His household is upset, his daughter is in love with the "radical" chauffeur, his son falls grudgingly in love with Ginger, and there is a great deal of "smart" dialogue designed to deceive us into believing that the goings-on are quite casual, quite natural, and awfully funny. I couldn't believe a word of it ; I didn't admire Miss Rogers' deliberately "dead-pan" playing of so many scenes ; and not even director LaCava's celebrated touches could convince me that people, whether on park bench or Park Avenue, really do talk and act that way. Walter Connolly works hard as the bemused millionaire, Verree Teasdale harder as his wife. A new girl, Kathryn Adams, shows real promise. GOLDEN BOY— Columbia HERE'S entertainment for the many and for the few. Superb screen translation of Clifford Odets' fine play, "Golden Boy" is worth anyone's time and money. The critical can give it the nod with no loss of face, for it has authentic power, luminous characterization, dialogue of depth and beauty. The practical, want-my-money's-worth moviegoer will swallow it whole and come back for more — for first of all "Golden Boy" is a great show, and boasts the added wallop of the most rousing prizefight since "Kid Galahad." Rouben Mamoulian's smashing direction is "important," his photography is stunning, his actors grade-A ; yet it is still Odets' play told in pictures— which is all right with me, an Odets' fan from "Waiting for Lefty." If Mr. O. would ever turn his complete attention to writing directly for the screen, we'd have a cinema Shakespeare. Until then, "Golden Boy" will do very nicely, thank you. Our Honor Page gives you William Holden, the lad who in the title role— his first— gives promise of being the potential Number One Boy of pictures. It's not his picture, though ; it is also Lee Cobb's, playing his grand old father ; it is Barbara Stanwyck's, in her most poignant performance since "Stella Dallas." The story of "Golden Boy," who exchanged his violin for boxing gloves, has punch aplenty. Adolphe Menjou, Sam Levene— the whole cast— fine! LADY OF THE TROPICS— M-G-M IN WHICH the world's most seductive woman lets us look at her for a long time and looks back at us from the screen through those magnificent eyes— and, strangely enough, gets tired first and quietly expires, leaving us to go home and look in our mirrors and ponder on the injustice of life and probably leaving Robert Taylor to ponder much the same thing, without the mirrors. "Lady of the Tropics" is simply an optical orgy for moviegoing gentlemen who have only just recuperated from seeing "Algiers"— one long feast of lovely Hedy Lamarr in ravishing close-ups, medium and long shots, each breathtakingly beautiful and quite, quite meaningless. Hedy plays a gorgeous gal of Indo-China who is won in marriage by allAmerican Bob Taylor, only to prove once more on the screen the good old saying about East Is East, and West Is West and never, etcetera. The elegant Eurasian finally gives up and dies by her own hand for love of Mr. Taylor— how different from "Algiers" where Hedy was such a femme fatalc for Charles Boyer. It must be that Metro wanted to curry sympathy for Miss Lamarr, but the only result is to work up sympathy for Mr. Taylor in the most thankless role any young actor was ever asked to play. The matchless Miss Lamarr doesn't need sympathy. We other women need sympathy and Mr. Taylor is the one to give it to us. 53