Reviews

This penultimate film from Frank Borzage, made in his mid sixties, is very much a slow moving, sad, bleak old man's film. But then again I'm a geezer myself (albeit not, I fancy, a bleak or sad one) so I can definitely relate. And, unlike the previous reviewer, I think Victor Mature is the best thing about it since his general mien is slow moving, lugubrious and hopeless and, apart from his bad attempts at playing a drunk (agree with the previous reviewer there), perfectly embodies the director's overall tone. Less good is the film's leading lady, Li Lihua, not because she is a poor actress (apparently she was the recipient of the award for best actress in Chinese language films) but because Borzage and his scenarists, Thomas Kelly and James Nablo, fail to provide her with anything beyond the submissive, saintly stereotyped Good Asian Woman role. And the stories and characters beyond Mature and Lihua are, with the partial exception of Ward Bond's chess playing priest, rather dull. I especially disliked the streotyped Cute, Precocious "I shine your shoes, GI" Asian Kid. So, let's give it a very generous B minus for being the last interesting film from a great director.

Clark Gable's only foray into producing (along with Jane Russell and her hubby, Bob Waterfield) is pretty disappointing, especially for a Raoul Walsh western. There are several reasons for this. Certainly an uncompelling story and characters must figure prominently into the overall sense of dismay. And the notable lack of fast paced, tense action, a Walsh staple, certainly helps to drag things down. For me, though, it's the plain and simple truth that it's extremely hard for a fifty six year old leading man, even the great Gable, who looks more like sixty five to be credible as a chick magnet, especially when said chicks are all at least twenty years his junior, and look it, that is the main reason this movie fizzles out. Indeed, the only things that linger in the mind are Jo Van Fleet's fine portrayal of a tired, bitter mom, Jean Willes' doing a good Mercedes McCambridge imitation and that totally weird, Aaron Copeland-like squaredance /ballet, sans piano. Walsh meets David Lynch? Kind of. Give it a C.

Sure is weird seeing Joel McCrea playing a sociopathic racist, huh? Kinda like Lee Van Cleef as the Pope or Barbra Streisand doing a homicidal nanny. It is a credit to McCrea's acting chops that not only does he pull it off but he's darn near as good as Robert Taylor's similarly unexpected, but effective, study in anti Native American prejudice in "The Last Hunt", made two years earlier. (Both performances and films fall short of The Duke in "Searchers", of course, but that's not really a fair criticism considering the greatness of Ford's masterwork).

Aside from McCrea several of the supporting players stand out. Forrest Tucker is quite good as kind of a darker Victor McLaglen as is veteran noir character actor Robert Osterloh as a Cavalry Everyman, (the kind of role James Whitmore would have had if this thing were a war film, instead of a Western). And it's good to see Western stalwart Denver Pyle affectingly play perhaps the most humane member of this rather dodgy cavalry company. Less good are John Russell and Susan Cabot, although it's hard to tell if they're just bad actors or if they're saddled with the most pretentious lines of the film's often stiff, soap boxy cum philosophical dialogue. Indeed, if it were not for the numerous scenes of Moral Breast Beating that only serve to slow the movie down I'd rate this Joseph Newman film considerably higher than I do, which is a generous B minus, mostly for Joel.

A potentially interesting, Somerset Maugham-esque father/son conflict, complete with intriguing elements like the remote, great white hunter dad dressing for dinner with his vaguely racist, beautiful Indian housemaid/mistrerss in attendance, is curtailed about twenty minutes in and in its place is inserted your standard, Disney-esque boys adventure yarn involving elephants and casually racist, cartoonishly evil Indian villains. It all points toward a resolution of the conflict that you can see coming about fifteen minutes in or when the vaguely racist, wise Indian manservant of the great white hunter accuses him of cowardice (and is slapped for it). As for the acting, it's fairly bad with Jay North still speaking in sing song Dennis The Menace cadences and Clint Walker channeling Cheyenne with a safari jacket. The Indian actors fare better with Sajid Khan nicely underplaying it as North's kid companion and I. S. Johar doing a good subcontinental Alfonso Bedoya. And the location shooting is stunning. Let's give it a generous C plus because I'm a fan of director John Berry, whose career was cut short by ol man blacklist, and scenarist John Fante, one of the better literary interpreters of my home town.

With apologies to all of you "Deerhunter" acolytes out there, to mention nothing of the few weirdos who regard "Heavens Gate" as a masterpiece instead of the empty bore that it is, this first film from Michael Cimino is far and away his best. Like "Gate", it's set in Montana, but all comparisons end there. This is a deceptively simple tale of four feckless thieves trying to pull off a heist. I say "deceptively" because, as I watched it, I thought it was, at best, a cut above the standard buddy/road pic level, thanks to the great performances of Eastwood, Bridges, Kennedy and Lewis. It wasn't until about three fifths of the way through that the characters got under my skin so that the last two fifths, which deal with their various fates, is quite moving. And the themes of male bonding and betrayal are handled in Cimino's fine screenplay with a welcome dearth of heavy handedness or speechifying. And Cimino the director in his first film shows a deft sense of pace and flow that many a veteran director would envy. Put simply, he does not let the action overwhelm the characters, or vice versa, and there is nothing even close to a dead spot. The film is nearly two hours long but felt more like ninety minutes. Indeed, if it were not for its pervasive, silly sexism (pretty much all the women in it are mindless or floozies or both) I'd be inclined to give this movie a 10. As it is, let's give it a B plus.

Austrian director Michael Haneke's first film is a work of staggering banality. Once again, wearily wheeled out for ritual condemnation, is the European art house crowd's favorite, all purpose villain, the bourgeoisie. Like the pencil thin moustachioed banker in a Western or a monocled "Ve hef ways of making you talk!" Gestapo guy in a WW2 flic, this benighted middle class family, whose unforgivable crime seems to consist in their being middle rather than upper or lower class, is denied all and any vestiges of humanity, originality, or perception, as is this film. As for its "pacing", so much admired by some of my IMDB colleagues below, it consists of boring one to death in the first forty five minutes and taking a dump on us the second. Cinematography's good, though. Solid C.

Eddie Muller, in his outro, dissed Ryan Murphy's "Feud" for the way it depicted Robert Aldrich, which is ironic since this Aldrich film kinda resembles that steamy, lurid mini series. Certainly Aldrich, like Murphy, knows that if you're going to make an anti Hollywood picture then you'd best populate it with fine actors all doing good work. And plenty of sex and scandal for the fine actors to wallow in. Most folks will rave about Steiger, Palance and "Miss" Shelley Winters, as she's referred to in the credits (letting rich older men know she's on the market?), and rightly so, but I want to take this opportunity to extol what I feel to be the finest acting turn in the film, that of Wendell Corey playing the movie's most ambiguous character, Smiley Coy, the self hating fixer for Steiger's Harry Cohn. What an intriguing combination of menacing and sad! In the space of one scene he can go from dolefully asking Palance what he's reading to announcing a murder for hire scheme. And his referring to everyone but his boss as "Kitty" is both breezy and creepy. I also like it that Corey does the foregoing without the scenery chewing of Steiger and Palance. Naturally, such subtlety went unrewarded. Rod and Jack and Miss Winters got all the ink. But Corey's the best in the cast, in my opinion.

So, a fun film about the industry. And maybe if it had soft peddled Clifford Odets' laments about poor, put upon Charlie, the sensitive, art loving, once great actor brought low by the vulgar studio boss it might have been a great film. But at no point in this very long work does Charlie accept even a scintilla of responsibility for his rather shabby behavior toward wife and best friend. Everything is Hoff's fault or The System's fault or Show Biz's fault. Which, of course, renders Charlie's suicide extra gratuitous. And this film a bit too whiny in tone. B minus.

Read on Wikipedia where this film lost its funding three fourths of the way through and had to be financially saved by its star. Surpised, actually. One would have thought that the diet soft drink industry would have rushed to the rescue of this paean to the evils of Big Sugar. Anyway, it's a fairly effective anti capitalist rant, mostly because its director, Gilo Pontecorvo, is able, via his political passion, to plunge us into the chaotic, brutal and tragic world of failed upheavals against exploitation. That it falls short of being an effective cinematic story, as well as polemical propaganda piece, is due mostly to its shying away from its most interesting element, the love/hate relationship between cynical imperialist William Walker, well played by Marlon Brando despite his rent a Brit accent, and unsuccessful revolutionary Jose Dolores, also well played by Evaristo Marquez albeit with an English accent that is very difficult to understand. In its place we are given way too many repetitive scenes of Portugese and English genocide and Brando's character on his soapbox. B minus.

PS...Wonderful, stirring Ennio Morricone title music that sounds like Ray Manzarek meets Africa/Carribean.

Long (almost three friggin hours, to be exact), slow and talky movies like this one are almost always a bad idea and never more so than in a war movie, which this one purports to be, where outer rather than inner conflict is the key element. Good directors of war films, like Raoul Walsh, Sam Fuller and Kathryn Bigelow, know this and are, thus, able to weave character and theme with action so that the film is always in motion, because a war flic that stops moving is, well you know what Woody said about a dead shark. Conversely, this film feels like it was not directed by Edward Dmytryk, who gets credit, but rather by the scenarist Edward Anhalt since it indulges that verbose fellow by periodically bringing the action to a thudding halt while various characters, chiefly Marlon Brando's Good Nazi, Montgomery Clift's Suffering Intellectual and Barbara Rush's and Arthur Frantz's Moral Consciences, opine and hold forth on such weighty topics beloved by late 50s Hollywood screenwriters as Being True To Oneself, The Insanity Of War and The Rigidity Of The Military Mindset with the heavy typewriter implied by capitalization of those topics. The film then lurches back to standard battle scenes to try to remind us that we're not watching some ponderous, three part Playhouse 90 episode but a combat picture. But it's a feeble attempt which does not convince.

And I haven't even gotten to how bad Brando's German accent is. C plus.

So so (or, as TCM's Alicia Malone accurately describes it, "minor") Alec Guinness comedy. A few good moments, like the disastrous seaside holiday where Guinness' ethically challenged man on the make realizes he's hooked up with an equally dodgy gold digger (a way too over the top Glynis Johns) but, for the most part, pleasant if too tepid stuff. Scenarist Eric Ambler sticks too close to Arnold Bennett's novel and, thus, creates, in my opinion, the wrong comic, love triangle. It should have been Machin, Miss Earp and the sexy, saucy Countess (a wonderful Valerie Hobson delivering the film's best performance, by far) rather than Machin/Miss Earp and the very forgettable Emma, played forgettably by Petulia Clark. And the film's second half, dealing with Machin's not very interesting get rich quick schemes and his even duller political rise, majorly drags. As for Guinness, he's a little too comfortable in his role of cheeky charmer, as if he's done it many times before and has nothing new to offer. I wouldn't say he phones it in. Guinness is too great an actor for that pejorative term ever to apply. But, as Machin might say, he tends to rest on his assets. C plus.

This is a quite stylish adaptation of parts of Proust's first three "Remembrance Of Things Past" novels. Director Volker Schlondorf captures the stifling social atmosphere of Proust's fin de siecle Paris where snobbery and social cruelty have been elevated to an art form. And Sven Nyqvist's seductive camera and Jacques Saulnier's stunning art direction ensure that many of the scenes resemble Courbet and Caillebotte paintings. And there is not anything close to a poor performance from the entire cast, with Jeremy Irons, Ornella Muti and Fanny Ardant especially skilled at capturing the tragedy and superficiality, often in the same scene, of the French aristocracy and their acolytes.

Still, for all of the above qualities, I cannot help but feel that Schlondorf and his co scenarists, Jean Claude Carriere, Marie Helene Estienne and Peter Brook, have largely chosen to tell the wrong story. At its heart Swann's tragedy with Odette is one of snobbery, not jealousy. He gains her only to lose access to the world of the aristocratic Guermantes which he desires even more than the courtesan whose former profession is the reason for his ostracism. And rather than focus on this cruel irony, too much of the film, in my opinion, is taken up with Swann's neurotic, obsessive pursuit of Odette, and his Othello like behavior vis a vis her many flirtations. Not only does this weaken the power of the social themes so vital to Proust's zeitgeist but it leaves very important characters, like the Baron De Charlus (an excellent Alain Delon) and the Duke De Guermantes, as well as the tropes of homosexuality and anti Semitism related to them that are also key aspects of Proust's world, unexplored in any but the most surface manner.

Bottom line: An ambitious but flawed film that is well worth your time. B minus.

Maybe it was the fact of watching it while its leading man, seventy five year old Gerard Depardieu, is set to stand trial for sexual assault. Or maybe it's that Francois Truffaut is simply better when he's in Paris and not trying to be Hitchcock. Whatever it was, I found myself vehemently disagreeing with TCM's Alicia Malone that this suburban, obsessive adultery tale "packs a punch". Unless, of course, Ms. Malone meant "punch" as in barbiturate overdose. Because other than Fanny Ardant's study in sardonic, smoldering sexuality (basically what saves this film from complete mediocrity) it's a real snore. And like most snores it features dull, subsidiary characters who add nothing, like Madame Jouve, Roland and the hospital psychiatrist. And scenes that are laughable in their attempt to be taken seriously, like the garden party where Bernard loses it and the even stupider scene that follows where his wife forgives him. C plus.

Thanks to cinematographer Lee Garmes this film has an appropriate for 1945 Hollywood noir-ish look, but, oh ye gods! Is the story and mood one long lugubrious slog, with every overwrought, humorless key on the amnesia scale being played to consummate, meldodramatic idiocy by director William Dieterle and scenarist Ayn Rand, the latter of whom is taking a holiday from praising capitalism to, instead, wallow in schmaltz. The players pretty much follow Dieterle/ Rand rather than Garmes with Jennifer Jones equating memory loss with infantilism and thus speaking in a breathless, girlish sing song throughout, a piece of annoyance which, naturally, got her an Oscar nomination. Joseph Cotten is, as usual, more restrained but his stubborn refusal to even attempt a British accent since he's, well, playing a friggin Brit, is also a bit on the irksome side. The supporting cast of actual Brits speaking in actual British accents fare better, especially Anne Richards (who was to have the lead role until David Selznick pushed his girl friend in front of her), Gladys Cooper and Cecil Kelloway. Give it a generous C plus, mostly for Garmes.

PS...Also notable is Victor Young's score which, although overdone like everything in this movie, is also, at times, beautiful.

The acting really saves this thing, in my opinion. With the exception of two rather inconsequential characters the cast is populated by a glorious, noir assemblage of human wreckage consisting of a portly, corrupt private eye, a grotesque, drunken landlady, a homoerotic, sleazy sidekick, a sociopathic leading man with a hair trigger temper and an even more sadistic leading lady who enjoys gazing upon dead bodies. And these parts are acted to perfection by Walter Sleazak, (taking a welcome departure from playing oleaginous Nazis), Esther Howard, Elisha Cook, Lawrence Tierney and Claire Trevor. Although in Tierney's case, as Eddie Muller noted, it doesn't seem like he's acting.

The above players, along with Robert Wise's taut direction, largely, although not completely, make up for a silly story with numerous holes, like how Sleazak's character tied Tierney to the Reno killings, and why Tierney would let Howard's snoop of a character get away, especially after he just killed his buddy, Cook. And the dialogue, while sometimes nicely sardonic when Sleazak is quoting Biblical verse, can get awfully gushy and purple in the scenes between Trevor and Tierney and when Trevor begs her fiancee to save her from evil. Give it a B minus.

This film probably should have been made either five years earlier or twenty years later. That way, it would have been able to delve more deeply into the ambiguities of the Norma Shearer/Conrad Veidt relationship, by far the film's most interesting aspect. As it is, this 1940 production, made just before the United States entry into WW2, is largely an anti Nazi propaganda piece which was fine for fighting isolationism but which today rings a bit too, well, propagandistic and results in too little Shearer and way too much Rat Fink Bob yelling at numerous scared Germans to help him find his mom and scolding them for their complicity. And when he does find her (played by an over the top Nazimova, as if she thinks she's still in silent pics) we have a jerry rigged and cockamamie scheme to fake her death via coma cooked up by a concentration camp doc with a conscience (as if), a character out of both left and right field. The result is a film that straddles the C plus/B minus line and which is pulled to the latter thanks to the scenes of Shearer and her lover/protector Veidt, scenes which are notable for their sexual frankness, certainly unusual for a movie made under the code, as well as Shearer's refusal to be PC, most notably expressed in the final scene.

If for no other reason than director Euzhan Palcy's ability to do what Arthur Penn, Francis Ford Coppola, Lewis Milestone and Josh Logan, among others, could not, namely elicit a relatively restrained but powerful acting job from Marlon Brando, this film about South Africa in the last days of Apartheid should be applauded. But there are other reasons to admire Palcy's work, chief among them Donald Sutherland's fine performance, his finest in my opinion, as an Afrikaaner sports hero turned anti Apartheid activist. It is one of the best studies in awakening social conscience that I have seen on screen. And like all good performances it is subtle. It is impossible to pinpoint just where Ben Dutoit's spine is stiffened but by the film's second half his body language is considerably less sagging and malleable. And that Sutherland's character undergoes this profound change without undue speechifying or soap box-ism is to the credit of scenarists Colin Welland and Palcy. Also effective in support, besides Brando, are Janet Suzman as Dutoit's resolutely unawakened wife, Zekes Mokae as a sardonic revolutionary and Rowen Elmes navigating the difficult role of Dutoit's admiring son without crashing into bathos. Less good is Susan Sarandon's bland anti Apartheid British journalist and Jurgen Prochnow's too cartoonishly evil Afrikaaner cop. And the film is about fifteen minutes too long. Other than that it is almost as good as the Andre Brink novel upon which it is based (and which I urge you to read). Give it a B plus.

This long, dull and talky film about The Problem Of American Involvement In Southeast Asia looks like its first time director George Englund's graduate thesis for Stanley Kramer University. Absolutely no flow whatsoever, just a lurch from one ponderous scene of talking heads to another with two rather clumsily handled action scenes thrown in to keep the viewer from crying out in utter ennui. That some of the dialogue is intelligent as well as overwrought is due either to the adaptation of Eugene Burdick and William Lederer's novel by Stewart Stern, one of 50 and 60s Hollywood's better scribes, or perhaps to the novel itself (haven't read it so I cannot be sure). In any case, it's a tiresome slog and its ultimate message (like all products of Kramer U, this thing is big on messages) that dictators are more to be trusted than commies is, ironically, exactly what got us into the whole Vietnam morass in the first place. Give it a C.

PS...For the record, the best performance is turned in by Kukrit Pramoj, the future prime minister of Thailand, here playing the shifty PM of the fictional country of Sarkan.

The 1950s were to movie westerns what the 40s was to film noir so it's always kinda shocking to see an oater made at this time be so friggin ordinary as this offering from Ray Nazarro. Although maybe not so shocking when you consider the fact that Budd Boetticher, one of the era's best western directors, called Nazarro the "ten day picture guy". And of those ten I would guess that half a day, at most, was spent on the screenplay/story since previous IMDB reviewers have written of its stunning predictability and unoriginality. I do, however, disagree with the previous reviewer who called it "beyond mediocre". Indeed, it is the very quintessence of average. Or, in other words, a solid C.

I see where posterity and the ghost of Maria Schneider have finally had their revenge on this dull, ugly film from Bernardo Bertolucci. If it is remembered at all today it is principally for the abuse the director and his leading man, Marlon Brando, put their nineteen year old leading lady through along with, admittedly, a powerful Brando performance that has a tendency to bleed into bathos.

There are many examples one could cite to show how awful this movie is. Lack of an interesting story (basically, a too passive, male fantasy Schneider trapped for two hours plus between two creeps) and characters that either make your skin crawl, bore the hell out of you, or from whom you wish to flee are the usual suspects. Let me give one that may have eluded my 230 IMDB colleagues below, namely that I have never seen the great Gallic actor Jean Pierre Leaud be this flat out annoying and empty. Bravo, Bernardo!

Bottom line: Bertolucci may have dazzled Pauline Kael. I, however, remain un-awed. Solid C.

Pretty much agree with the majority of the eleven previous reviewers that this is mostly trashy boredom with occasional trashy fun. Worst thing about it is how cheesy a production it is. Not only does it look like TV, but cheap ass TV, to boot. More "Highway Patrol", say, than "Untouchables" since it makes but a feeble attempt at a period look, and the cinematography is serviceable, at best. Certainly expected more from the great DP, Stanley Cortez, who does whatever the cinematographer's version of phoning it in is (post carding it in?). That it rates a very generous five is due to some nice, twisted supporting bits from Victor Buono as the Sam Jaffe of this ersatz Asphalt Jungle and John Hoyt as a pervy quack. As for Nick Adams, he does what he always does, mumble and method his way through until he decides to yell and go bananas. Mary Ann Mobley is also over the top, especially in the film's second half, but at least she's hot. Bob Conrad (as Pretty Boy Floyd) and John Ashley (as Baby Face Nelson) tend to get lost amid all the tommy guns. As does Terry Morse's direction and Arthur Hoehl and Donald Zimbalest's screenplay. Solid C.

Despite the uplifting title, which I take it is not ironic (Czechoslovakia in 1964 strikes me as an irony free zone), and the inspirational, optimistic quote at the beginning and end of the film, this is a fairly bleak, cheerless, hopeless critique of Czech society four years before the Prague Spring broke (and was then promptly broken by Breznev) with Communism played out and the younger generation similarly disaffected and bored. That it is not as powerful as it is pessimistic is due to its director, Evald Schorm's, centipede like pacing. You can almost hear him offscreen, whenever the film threatens to become dramatically compelling, shouting at the cast and crew to "slow things down, please!" Consequently we have too many repetitive scenes of the main characters engaged in aimless lovemaking and fighting and wandering around while miserable or alienated. (I bet Antonioni liked this film). C plus.

PS...Animal rights alert! Headless chicken! View at your own risk.

Somewhat misplaced title since the main violence in this film is the furious scraping sound of the bottom of the Noir Alley barrel. In other words, "Violence" is so bad that even Eddie's intro and outro sucked. And speaking of the Noir Alley host, he warned us in the intro that the movie was odoriferous but that we might find it of interest as an anti domestic Fascist commentary. Which is a bit like saying that a 1948 Treasury Department press conference is a prescient anti inflation indicator. There's really nothing about it that rises above the trash can lid level other than, perhaps, Peter Whitney's study in sadistic arrested development (strange that Eddie, who is usually good at picking the few good bits in a dull candy box, fails to mention Whitney's performance). The rest of the acting runs the gamut from amusingly cliche (Sheldon Leonard's Brooklyn gunsel) to hole in the screen (Nancy Coleman's spunky but amnesiac reporter). Cinematography, directorial pacing and scene setting are non existent while the dialogue is as flat as a papadum. C minus.

Martin Scorsese may find this 1948 offering memorable but I saw it two days ago and have already, largely, forgotten it. All that lingers in the mind is Ava Gardner's sexuality, a few Eve Arden zingers (she's the only one in the cast with any comic spark, whatsoever) and a certain sweetness/innocence that is a poor substitute for actual laughter. And you have to search far and wide for a duller couple than Dick Haymes and Olga San Juan. Hell, even Janis Paige and Don De Fore in "Romance On The High Seas" are better! Throw in three (or was it four? Can't remember) unremarkable Kurt Weill songs and tepid support from Robert Walker and Tom Conway, both of whom look like they wandered in from a more interesting noir, and you can see why this thing rates a generous C, mostly for the high quality, Ava eye candy.

Pretty much all of the seven Budd Boetticher/Randolph Scott westerns are on the dark side but this is, in my opinion, the darkest of the bunch. It is an acute examination of, as the title states, loneliness along with empty vengeance, and in a hard hitting, action packed and psychologically tense hour and thirteen minutes, with nothing even close to a dead spot, the viewer is led through the bleak, harsh landscape of California's Inyo Valley, as seen through Charles Lawton's evocative camera, and the even harsher, bleaker soulscape of ex sheriff and dead man walking Ben Brigade, as seen through Scott's powerful performance. If the Western in the 1950s was not considered such a despised genre by "serious" cinephiles I think Scott would have received a lot more critical acclaim than he got. Also notable are good supporting turns from an array of fine western character actors, like James Best as an oleaginous back shooter, Lee Van Cleef as his even more sociopathic elder brother, Pernell Roberts as a typically ambiguous, Boetticherian good guy/villain and James Coburn, in his film debut, as Roberts' none too bright sidekick. Scenarist Burt Kennedy, as per usual when he teams up with Boetticher, provides fine, wry, terse dialogue that allows all the characters, no matter how scummy, moments of insight. And presiding over the whole, and giving the film its seamless pacing, is director Boetticher. Indeed, his only flaw is the regrettable decision to cast the lovely, curvaceous but wooden Karen Steele in the female lead, although that could have been producer Harry Joe Brown's doing. Give it an A minus.

Consistently amusing, if not hilarious, comedy. Too much on the pleasant rather than the cynical end of the humor spectrum, especially for Billy Wilder. And the subsidiary characters, beyond Diana Lynn, tend to be bland. But oh what a tour de force for Ginger Rogers who rings every possible register on the wise cracking dame as twelve year old. The first twenty minutes or so when Rogers breaks an egg over a leering elevator operator's head, kicks a creepy guy in the shin in a train station and evades suspicious train conductors is pitch perfect, screwball stuff. And when the movie starts to flatten out during the long stay at the military academy it's Ginger who keeps it moving with seductive dance moves directed at twelve year old cadets (perhaps spoofing her movies with Fred?) or fending off military seduction from said kids. Ray Milland, by contrast, seems to take whatever supply of pervy, Humbert Humbert risibility his character possesses and proceeds to drain it. Perhaps he was forced to do so at the behest of the Hays Office frumps. But, as usual in comedy, Milland is a bore. McRae would have been a thousand percent better. Or MacMurray. Let's give it a generous B minus (or minor) 'cause of Rogers and the fact that it was this great director's first film.