CONTEMPORARY ARTS
CINEMA a Cinderella." (Prince of Wales.)
IN these days, when the fears, woes and problems of human beings are reflected in all their despondency on the screen, it is difficult even for a film-critic to escape from reality. Mr. Disney's Cinderella, however, is as potent a purge for dark thoughts as could be imagined. It takes us with one sky-blue stroke right out of this world into a much nicer one, a world of talkative mice, of bluebirds wearing head-scarves, of dogs, cats, pumpkins and fairies. No one entering this wo!ld can wish to leave it, so ingenious are its absurdities, so bright its colours and so romantic its history ; and I can suggest no more perfect remedy for heart- ache—or even headache—than this delightful*film. If I must be critical, which I am loath to be, Mr. Disney's human beings are, as usual, strangely wooden for one who has so fluidly mastered the curve of a mouse's tail ; but this :apse can easily be forgiven in the general enchantment. And, thank heavens, this time there is no mixture of cartoon and photography.
Accompanying this picture is a documentary of Disney's called Seal Island, a Technicolored glimpse into the harsh realities of seal-life in a breeding-ground.
Now I want to beg your indulgence. This is the one week in the year when I find it impossible to go to work with a clear and open mind ; when, however wonderful and unique the offerings laid before me on the screen, I cannot give them my wholehearted attention ; when, in fact, brooding as I am about glass balls without any wire loops, cranberry- versus bread-sauce, cards which will not fit their envelopes and the improbability of remembering Colonel Stewart-Hay's address, I cannot imagine what I am doing in a cinema. Frankly, my heart is not in my work. Please allow me, then, merely to inform you that Jot roi at the Curzon is a short and enchanting French comedy about a peasant who sells his land and then threatens to commit suicide if the new owner cuts down the trees—very well worth a visit—and that Harvey at the Odeon, with Mr. James Stewart as the charming dipsomaniac who takes an invisible six-foot rabbit about withehim, is a disappointment. The Spectator goes to press early this week, so I cannot give you my views on the great Mr. de Mille's Samson and Delilah until after Christmas. I could hardly be more pleased. I am filled with seasonable sentiment, and send you my warmest wishes for health, happiness and prosperity, but this week I would rather serve you with mince-pies than with film-reviews.
VIRGINIA GRAHAM.
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