THE CINEMA
ti The Forsyte Saga." (Empire, Boxing Day.)--,. A Run for Your Money." (Gaurnont and Marble Arch Pavilion.)---.. The Mid- night Kiss." (Empire.) MEnto-GotowvN-Mavra evidently. approached The Forsyte Saga on reverent knees, as befits a classic, and it is obvious that they have paid assiduous attention to the " props " side of the production, and have fluttered about with velvet-gloved hands, getting every gas- mantle just so. Unfortunately, the clan Forsyte, though certainly recognisable have not been given such loving consideration, for, though in all matters pertaining to appearance and speech they have been faithfully portrayed, their hearts and souls seem to have eluded pdaptation.
Mr. Errol Flynn as Soames Forsyte has managed (and it must have taken a lot of management) to transform his usual dashing self into a cold, tight-lipped autocrat, and as such he is excellent. Yet in this stern, unhappy man there surely should be something that excites our sympathy, and here there is nothing. Mr. Walter Pidgeon as the young Jolyon makes but the softest impact on the consciousness, and Mr. Robert Young, as the architect Philip Bosinney, does not really convince one that his charms are all that seductive. Among these shadows Miss Greer Garson walks like the midsummer sun, drawing all towards her with irresistible magnetism. For she has, what the others so sadly lack, a personality ; she is mature accom- plished, sensitive, and it is through her, and her alone, ;hat this lm has life and breath. Fortunately, she is constantly with us, so hat, on the whole, one is perfectly happy to sit and watch the splendidly coloured tragedy unfold as directed with becoming gravity jay Mr. Compton Bennett.
•
Ealing Studios, continuing their programme of comedies, have once again given birth to a fine, lusty babe. A Run for Your Money has a happy freshness about it which immediately captures the heart, and, if it is not quite as funny as Passport to Pimlico or quite as original as Whisky Galore, it has its own moments which excel either. Directed, unpretentiously and with exquisite touches of humour, by Charles Frcnd, it tells the simple tale of how two Welsh miners who have won a newspaper prize for a record output come up to London for the day to see an International rugger match. This neither of them does. One of them, Mr. Donald Houston, gets involved with a " con " girl, Miss Moira Lister, and the other, Mr. Meredith Edwards, meets up with an old friend who is singing in the gutter, and they have a very difficult muzzy day trying to get a harp to Twickenham. Mr. Edwards is a newcomer to the screen, and I venture to think we shall see more of him.
Pursuing these two dewy youths, whose trustful natures and lilting voices are immensely appealing, is Mr. Alec Guinncss disguised as a newspaper reporter, whose main métier is the writing of a gardening column in the Daily Echo. Hoicked in to cover the miners' story, he presents a most touching picture of inadequacy, and is extremely funny. I can't pretend that this is an important picture or a potential dollar-earner, but it radiates such a pleasant glowing feeling, such a sense of cosiness and good humour, that from the ordinary man's point of view it must, I feel, be regarded as something really valuable.
Only those blessed with an abnormal love for little extracts from operas and baby portions of piano concertos should visit The Mid- night Kiss. It is a kiss that would awaken the dead, for Miss Kathryn Grayson and Mr. Mario Lanza take it in turns to sing perfectly beautifully, but by virtue of the local cannery loudly enough to make the listener cower down, vibrating like a gong, in his seat; and when they are resting, Mr. Iturbi takes over with a large Phila- delphia orchestra. The story is the familiar one of "local girl makes good," and it is, as usual, confoundedly foolish. Miss Ethel Barry- more, for whom one's heart bleeds with irremediable wounds, plays the part of an understanding grandmother, but all the wise old saws that are surely on the tip of. her tongue have to be swallowed in favour of Verdi. She is left looking a little sad and, who shall blame
Previous page
