THE CINEMA
• Winter Meeting." (Carlton.)—" Trottie True." (Leicester Square.)—" Obsession." (New Gallery and Tivoli.) "The Younger Brothers." (London Pavilion.)
THE years come, the years go, but nobody has yet succeeded in usurping the throne upon which Miss Bette Davis sits, nor does her crown shift a millimetre on her proud head. Miss Grable's legs may rupture the blood vessels of millions, but as far as acting is concerned Miss Davis remains, without any doubt whatever, the queen of Hollywood. In Winter Meeting, an adaptation of Miss Ethel Vancc's novel of that name, she is so perfectly excellent as to fill one with a sense of grief ; grief for her colleagues who must eternally live in her shade, grief for the endless films which are denied the services of anyone approaching her personality. She makes herself look as plain as possible, her clothes are unattractive, her starchy clipped accent is as cold as clean sheets, yet one remains hypnotised by her every word, look and action, caught up in her magic, so potent and so indefinable, so cerebral and yet so emotional. She is, of course, one of those rare, bewitching, enslaving things, an actress.
In Wittier Meeting Miss Davis is taken on a party by Mr. John Hoyt to meet a conquering hero returned from the seas, one Mr. John Davis, a gentleman as morose as a thunder-cloud. Neither of them likes the other very much, but they fall in love and spend two brooding days together in a Connecticut farmhouse airing their inhibitions. It transpires in the end that Miss Davis's father com- mitted suicide because her mother was unfaithful to him and that Mr. Davis has always wanted to be a priest. Each eventually restores the faith of the other, and the picture ends on a renunciatory note, the air quivering with soft organ music and tears. Never mind how unappealing this story may be to you, for here is a film you should not miss. The direction by Mr. Bretaigne Windust is magnificent, thoughtful as they come and impregnated with beautiful silences in which the eye alone catches the mood of the moment. The script, by Miss Catherine Turney, is always intelligent and sometimes amusing, and Miss Davis is superb. On the debit side I would say that this film is ten minutes too long and its hero too determinedly glum. Even those torn between sacred and profane love must smile occasionally, just perhaps for politeness' sake.
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In Trottie True Miss Jean Kent shows us how perfectly easy it was to leave the Gaiety stage and become a duchess. To my generation this does not come as a surprise, for we have been brought up to believe that in Edwardian days it was the only way to become a duchess. Still, Miss Kent brings a certain novelty to this hackneyed theme by being very happy as a duchess and fitting quite snugly into the ducal mansion, an edifice resembling Stowe and containing some remarkable marbled vistas. I can truly say my heart sank like a stone when I perceived Miss Kent's rapid rise from the Old Bedford to the Gaiety, but really this isn't at all a bad film of its kind and is admirably acted. Messrs. James Donald, Bill Owen, Hugh Sinclair and Andrew Crawford and the Misses Mary Hinton, Lana Morris and Joan Young give freely of their by no means unimportant talents, and Miss Kent herself brings an individual quality to what must be the most stereotyped role on the screen.
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Obsession is a very good thriller indeed.' It has no business to be, as it is full of absurdities, but Mr. Edward Dmytryk resolutely directs the mind away from them and gives this squalid dory of a doctor who chains up his wife's lover in a basement for rzitinths while he slowly fills a bath with acid (brought daily in a hot-water bottle), a quality of excitement which is hard to resist. Mr. Robert Newton as the would-be murderer and Mr. Naunton Wayne as the Superintendent from Scotland Yard give exceptionally fine perform- ances.
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The Younger Brothers ica Western picture in Technicolor, and it has not a single characicristic, action or word to distinguish it from its myriad predecessors. Thundering hooves, corpses and Mr. Wayne Morris—all are here, and all add up to such an aching familiarity that my typewriter can scarce forbear to yawn. Oh that I were nine again and being taken to my first movie by an uncle with a bag of acid drops !
VIRGINIA GRAHAM.
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