The New Pictures, Mar. 30, 1942

The Remarkable Andrew (Paramount) is a refreshing fantasy. It brings back a posse of Founding Fathers and other once-vigorous Americans to mop up a pack of dishonest, flag-waving, 20th-century politicians.

Oathy, whiskey-swigging Andrew Jackson (Brian Donlevy), seventh President of the U.S., turns up in Shale City, Colo, to pay a debt of gratitude to the great-grandson of the man who saved his life at the Battle of New Orleans. The great-grandson, William Holden, an honest young municipal bookkeeper, needs help. His politico bosses are about to jail him for discovering that they have rigged the city books to cover their thefts.

Old Hickory, who knows his politicians, rattles his saber, polishes off the choice Maryland rye that teetotaling Holden fetches him from the drugstore, and bellows: “Rascals and poltroons! Every one of ’em. If I were in charge, I’d do with them what I should have done to Henry Clay.” “What’s that?” inquires Holden. “Hang ’em!” says Old Hickory.

The arrival of Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Marshall, et al. to serve as defense counsel returns the case to a legal level. Their ghostly talents permit them to gather evidence unobserved. The case is a pushover. Of no help whatsoever is another shady defender named Henry Bartholomew Smith (James Conlon), volunteer private in Washington’s Continental Army, who, having helped free his country, is through taking orders from generals whose commissions have expired. While the great men squabble over oldtime politics, he observes dryly to Bookkeeper Holden: “Now do you see why it took us seven years to win the Revolution?”

Not in the same league with 1941’s memorable fantasy, Here Comes Mr. Jordan, Andrew is still delightful, timely entertainment. It fails to make full use of its Continental shades, and its wobbly plot could stand tightening, but its well-played characters are honestly appealing —especially young Holden, as he tells the jury: “I hope what I am trying to say doesn’t sound like flag-waving. I have always felt that flag-waving was something sacred and quiet, and not to be done for any selfish motive.”

The Tuttles of Tahiti (RKO Radio) are an exceptionally lazy family. Trying to get them to work is like trying to interest a six-day bicycle racer in a five-day week. Their laziness is encouraged by the man from whom they inherited it: their improvident, prolific, lovable father Jonas (Charles Laughton), South Seas remnant of the Massachusetts Tuttles.

Bearded, barefooted Jonas and his uncounted half-breed offspring are always going to earn a living “when we get twisted around.” Their problem is gasoline. It costs money. Without it they can neither fish for bonita nor make Jonas’ ancient clapboard truck run. When a sailor son (Jon Hall) comes home with a prize U.S. fighting cock, Jonas wagers the family furniture, the vanilla crop, anything at hand, on the fortune-restoring bird. The result is the blackest day in the history of the Tuttles.

But day dawns again for the Tuttles when they salvage a cargo vessel, loaded with gasoline and other stores, abandoned by its crew in a hurricane. With their 400,000 francs prize money, they open a joint checking account, and the wackiest spending spree Tahiti ever saw.

This cinemadaptation of a Charles Nordhoff & James Norman Hall story called No More Gas is a South Seas holiday for accomplished Actor Laughton, who looks a little lighter since he forsook heavy roles. His Jonas is a winning old codger; for such an actor the part seems scarcely worth playing, but it is well worth watching. He leaves the rest of the cast, the story and the direction far behind him.

Good shot: Jonas, bug-eyed over the crisp, neat 400,000-franc salvage check in his trembling hand, asks huskily: “Do you think it would be all right if I fold it?”

Always In My Heart (Warner) is a tearful little earful constructed out of old rags and bones and plot situations that have been lying around the Warner lot for years. It was built to launch young (15) Gloria Warren, brand-new Warner songstress, of the same light-cruiser class as Deanna Durbin. Through no fault of hers, Miss Warren almost capsizes.

Perhaps because it is admittedly difficult to construct an appealing story around a voice, the Brothers Warner try everything. They open with Mother (Kay Francis) about to take her second husband (Sidney Blackmer), Father (Walter Huston) in prison for a crime he did not commit, Daughter (Miss Warren) trilling arias and practicing her scales like a good little girl.

When Father is pardoned (in prison he conducted the symphony orchestra and wrote a song, Always In My Heart), he goes to see his children. Aware that his ex-wife, whom he made divorce him, is about to remarry, that his children think him dead, he proceeds to involve everyone in a melodramatic mix-up which ends in knife-play, a stormy rescue at sea, and the reuniting of the whole family.

This williwaw raises enough of a dust-screen for Miss Warren to squeeze in the kind of songs Deanna used to sing and the title song, a very tuneful melody. Her voice, often shrill, is not so pleasing as her natural, likable personality; her performance is a good first try.

Although the Brothers Warner did not plan it that way, the star of their picture is durable Walter Huston. Saddled with a sour part, he kicks up his heels and jumps right out of the lot, like the timber-topping actor he is.