The New Pictures, Nov. 3, 1947

Forever Amber (20th Century-Fox) is every bit as good a movie as it was a novel. But it may not be as sensationally popular as Kathleen Winsor’s account of a Slut’s Progress.

Many who admired the book may be disappointed to learn that in the picture Amber is allowed only four of her numerous lovers. What’s more, she gets an even crueler comeuppance, without (as far as the camera can see) having much fun earning it. During the 140 minutes of the movie the famous hussy is never even kissed hard enough to jar an eyelash loose; and it comes as a mild shock when she suddenly announces her pregnancy.

But Amber enthusiasts may not realize that they are not getting what they paid for. By way of insuring a reputed $6 million investment in the picture, Darryl Zanuck & Co. have performed near-miracles of cinematic legerdemain that distract attention from Amber’s uninteresting innocence. Chief distractions:

¶ The picture is mounted with a radiant opulence. Items: $250,000 to recreate and cremate 17th Century London; $100,000 to reconstruct a wing of Whitehall Palace; $90,000 for Amber’s wardrobe; $100,000 to film one kiss (which was later cut).

¶ Leon Shamroy’s camera gives Amber a highly appetizing protective Technicoloration that dotes with equal affection on furniture and flesh, brazen sconce and brazen bust.

¶ To keep Amber stepping, scene after scene had to be chopped out. These gaps have been plugged with some of the loudest cinemusic ever soundtracked—obviously in hopes that audiences literally will not be able to hear themselves think. The scheme backfires in a curious way: with eyes drugged by the Technicolor and ears numbed by the weight of sound, cinemaddicts are in no shape to appreciate the movie’s Big Attractions (The London Fire, The Great Plague, The Duel, Amber in Childbirth).

¶ The first-magnitude cast is headed by a blonde Linda Darnell who makes a handsome but unexciting Amber. Cornel Wilde, as Amber’s steady, Lord Bruce Carlton, uses both of his facial expressions frequently. George Sanders, as King Charles II, is at least a periwig above the other players and very nearly gives the show away when he says: “Madam, your mind is like your wardrobe—many changes but no surprises.”

Nightmare Alley (20th Century-Fox) is a hair-raising carnival sideshow. At the dead end of the alley lives the Geek, an is-he-man-or-is-he-beast carnival exhibit that tears up and eats live chickens. He is able to stomach this job because he is in the last stages of dipsomania, and is paid a bottle a day and a place to sleep it off.

This ultimate pit of carnival-life degradation fascinates shrewd, up & coming young Stan Carlisle (Tyrone Power), but it takes Stan nearly two hours’ playing time to learn that in spite of all his talents he was born to be a Geek. Stan is one of the most wholehearted and resourceful heels yet to leave a print on the U.S. screen. He climbs a ladder made of ladies. Rung No. 1 is Zeena (Joan Blondell), the midway’s mentalist. He plays cozy with her just long enough to swipe a pseudo-telepathic formula through which he can graduate to the big time. No. 2 is a luscious, loyal dimwit named Molly (Coleen Gray), whom he marries. No. 3 is Lilith (Helen Walker), a pseudo-psychiatrist who outsmarts him at his own racket.

Nightmare Alley would be unbearably brutal for general audiences if it were played for all the humor, cynicism and malign social observation that are implicit in it. It would be unbearably mawkish if it were played too solemnly. Scripter Jules Furthman and Director Edmund Goulding have steered a middle course, now & then crudely but on the whole with tact, skill and power. They have seldom forgotten that the original novel they were adapting is essentially intelligent trash; and they have never forgotten that on the screen pretty exciting things can be made of trash. From top to bottom of the cast, the playing is good. Joan Blondell, as the fading carnival queen, is excellent and Tyrone Power—who asked to be cast in the picture—steps into a new class as an actor.

Variety Girl (Paramount) is a kind of Moviegoers’ Digest of all Paramount pictures. Almost everything that draws breath and salary on the Paramount lot—from the biggest star to the lowliest scene shifter—has a spot in this glittering show.

The plot, which serves as an excuse for bringing all Paramount’s talent together, is so simple that it took four Hollywood writers to think it up: the audience is merely allowed to tag along on a studiedly informal studio tour with two young actresses (Mary Hatcher and Olga San Juan) who are trying to break into pictures.

In its unpretentious, meandering way, Variety Girl is a likable show, mostly because its stars are allowed to do what they do best: Sonny Tufts says “Gee!”; Lizabeth Scott says nothing, but wears her inscrutable smirk; Gary Cooper wraps his leathery grin around an apple and mumbles “H’lo”; Paulette Goddard poses provocatively in a bubble bath; Bob Hope & Bing Crosby recite some better-than-average light banter while chopping golf balls all over the lot; Pearl Bailey puts the show in her pocket with a sulky song called Tired.

Mary Hatcher, 17-year-old veteran of Broadway’s Oklahoma!, sings and looks considerably better than is required of the Young Hopeful; with so many more famous faces to ogle, the camera hardly gives her a tumble.

Green Dolphin Street (MGM) was the winner of MGM’s first annual $200,000 novel contest. With a pennywisdom that raised the picture’s cost above $4 million, the studio apparently attempted to preserve on film almost every page of its prizewinning property.

The $200.000 story: two daughters of a rich St. Pierre (Channel Islands) merchant fall in love with the same slack-mouthed young man (Richard Hart). He cannot make up his mind what to do with his life, until Lana Turner, the “strong” sister (you can tell because she juts her jaw), suggests that he become a British naval officer.

After missing his ship in a China port, Hart goes to New Zealand and settles down in the lumber business with an old St. Pierre acquaintance (Van Heflin). Then he writes home to ask Donna Reed, the “sweet” sister (you can tell because she flutters her eyelashes), to come out and marry him. When Sister Lana arrives, it all comes back to him: he was drunk when he wrote the letter of proposal and got the sisters’ names mixed.

The marriage, founded on a slip of the pen, somehow survives years & years of dull quarrels, lots of showy New Zealand background, one of the jolliest earthquakes ever filmed, a rip-roaring attack by Hollywood Maoris (who all seem to be named “Hemo”), and the limited advances, with flaring nostrils, of Mr. Heflin, who cherishes quite a yen for his business partner’s wife.

Meanwhile, back in St. Pierre, dejected Miss Reed has decided to become a nun. Sister Lana & husband get home just in time for a big, tasteless church scene in which Donna takes her vows as Lana makes calf’s eyes at Donna’s onetime man. The moral of all this seems to be: if you want to be happy, be sure to marry someone you don’t love.