Review of Mannequin

. . . as shipping magnate Spencer Tracy and his trophy wife Joan Crawford are forced by Union Solidarity to liquidate every last boat and piece of jewelry in their coffers. This pair of resource-hoarding malingering miscreants also are impelled to surrender palatial offices and living quarters in favor of a three-room slum flat filled with rotten smells and a jarring cacophony of yelling neighbors, rumbling el trains and yowling infants. (Their lavatory's at the end of the hall, but if the wait proves too long they can go squat in a basement stairwell.) Surely casting Ms. Crawford and Mr. Tracy in their MANNEQUIN roles represents brilliant selections for a nation in the throes of a Great Depression, for this pair is hands down the People's Choice for the "I hope they lose everything, and wake up in the gutter" Award. What better flick to mark the occasion of Bernie I-Made-Off-with-17-billion-dollars' passing than MANNAEQUIN?