THE CINEMA
" The Hucksters." (Empire.)—" Down to Earth." (Gaumont, Haymarket, Marble Arch Pavilion.)
FOR those who enjoyed The Hucksters as a novel, the film of it will aggravate as much as it pleases. It is pleasing in that it has the same amusing slickness on the business side, and aggravating in that it has conceded to public taste on the romantic side. Perhaps it had to. Perhaps nobody in his senses would go to see Mr. Clark Gable having an affair with a married woman whose husband is overseas ; perhaps nobody could bear the pain of seeing him leave her, even though it was the right thing to do. I dare say not. But in the book this love •
affair was very touching ; it was fought against, surrendered to and renounced with all the suffering, delight and remorse that can be felt by two nice people trapped by their emotions, whereas in the film it has been bled of its poignancy. The woman has become a widow, the pursuit is orthodox, the ending happy.
In spite, however, of this determined smoothing of love's pathway, The Hucksters gives us a realistic view into the lives of radio adver- tisers and into the tortuous amoral workings of their fevered minds. There are many poisoned darts flying about, and they are amusingly winged and accurately aimed. Their chief target is Mr. Sydney Greenstreet as the rich, eccentric, omnipotent sponsor of Beautee Soap, before whose vast white waistcoat and panama hat the bravest men bow down. He is splendid. He is perfect. He is worth all of us. 6d. The senior archer is Mr. Gable. He has lost none of the old Olympian charm that has made the female heart beat like a jungle tom-tom for many a year, and there need be no laying aside of the drumsticks, no dousing of the torches. Half panther, half Debrett, he remains the answer, one of the answers anyway, to a maiden's prayer. Mr. Adolphe Menjou, too, has been unmarked by the years and remains as suave as ever. Through this smart crisp film Miss Deborah Kerr picks her way gently, like a lady, emphasising by hex startled expression, her shy gestures and her unfailing good manners, the brashness of her surroundings. Her sweetness just stops short of insipidity, but only just. Finally, a word for Miss Ava Gardner, who plays the part of a tough cabaret star. She actually has a face, a real human face set in real honest-to-goodness brown hair. Even the most innocent child knows that cabaret stars have circular poker- pans and peroxide pompadours, and no cabaret manager would have considered for an instant booking that friendly vivacious face and that simple hair-do ; but in a role not conducive to sensitive acting Miss Gardner shows she has a delicate touch as well as an attractive personality.
It is curious that films have taught one to accept without question facts which reason rejects. I knew that, should I find myself some day sitting, like Miss Rita Hayworth, in a silent satin-smooth train, singing Let's Be Young Forever to a handsome young man, my eyes blazing with love, and all the other passengers humming like highly contrapuntal bees, I should not be in the least surprised. It happens in all the best Technicolor trains, and I believe it is just bad luck, nothing more, that up to now I have travelled on more prosaic lines.
Down to Earth relates how Terpsichore, leaning over the high bar of heaven, is enraged to see a Broadway producer travestying her on the stage, and of how she descends in mortal guise to insist on his altering his interpretation of Grecian dancing from the jive to the classical. Apparently the Greeks have no word for jive. But, alas, Miss Hayworth does not know her public. Her ballet, alive though it be with flambeaux and leaping brown males, sends the stalls into a coma of boredom, and she finally sees how idiotic she has been, and allows her producer, Mr. Larry Parks, once again to release the ants into everybody's pants, with startling but un- deniably successful results. Odd as it may seem, there is not enough dancing in this film, and Miss Hayworth is very much better at dancing than at anything else. When she was with Mr. Fred Astaire she did little but chasse in chiffon, but now she mouths in mink, which is not nearly so captivating. However, when she does dance she dances as divinely as any goddess, her ethereal chaims consider- ably enhanced by a strong studio wind, on which she flies like a feather. Mr. Roland Culver seems a trifle unhappy as a sort of celestial reception clerk, and it is grievous to note with what painful stocism he pronounces "can't," " dance " and " advantage " in the American way. Surely this is unnecessary. After all, there must be a sprinkling of Englishmen in heaven, and I refuse to believe all the best jobs are held by Americans.
I must confess I dote on Technicolor. It makes me feel so well. The women glow, the men shine, the sky is dipped in bluebag, the sun pours over everything like an eternal blessing. Although Mount Pamassus consists of four pillars planted in a desert of cumuli, when one walks there the clouds scuff up like dust around one's ankles, "lint white and very, very sweet," as Mr.Noel Coward once said of an elephant. Mr. Edward Everett Horton is there too, and a lot of Muses with ringlets, so it is worth a visit.
VIRGINIA GRAHAM.
Previous page
