Cinema: The New Pictures: Jun. 20, 1938

Blockade (Walter Wanger). “Not only do we meekly take intimidation from abroad but we jump obediently when almost anybody in this country says ‘Frog!’ It’s ridiculous, and I, for one, don’t intend to continue. I’m going to release this Spanish picture as is and if it’s banned in Europe, I’ll have to take my loss.”

This indignant blast by Producer Walter Wanger last month; announcement that during the filming of Blockade mysterious strangers had been snooping about the set; and a report that when it was completed, a print was sent to General Franco’s agents were all characteristic of the ballyhoo preceding the release of this picture. Consequently, when Blockade finally appeared last week, the cinema industry justifiably anticipated a polemic sensation that would jolt other producers’ self-imposed silence on controversial subjects from totalitarian government to the relative merits of Scotch and bourbon whiskey.

In all justice to Producer Wanger, who at least had the nerve to approach an explosive theme. Blockade is no sensational polemic. U. S. cinemaddicts who are familiar with the history of Spain’s Civil War may trace a similarity between certain incidents in the picture and the invasion of the Basque provinces, the arrival of the food ship Seven Seas Spray in Bilbao, and the air raids on Madrid and Barcelona. On the vast majority of U. S. cinemaddicts these verisimilitudes may well be lost, and Blockade will stand on its meagre merits as one more incident in the career of Madeleine Carroll as the cinema’s most assiduous international spy.

Spying for the army that has blockaded the port of Castelmare, Miss Carroll changes sides after getting a good look at the city’s undernourished urchins and oldsters. This serves to emphasize the picture’s incontrovertible thesis—that civilian populations suffer in modern war—but since her sweetheart (Henry Fonda) is in the army fighting to defend Castelmare, audiences are not likely to be bowled over by Miss Carroll’s change of sentiment. Otherwise, Blockade’s main innovation lies in the fact that it concentrates not on the fighting in the front lines but on its consequences behind them. Glimpses of peasants fleeing from their farms, townsfolk with-pinched faces huddled beside ruined buildings or staring forlornly out to sea, make up its most effective sequences. As such, they constitute an interesting variation on the Hollywood war-picture formula but are scarcely enough to give the picture top rating, either as document or as drama. Typical shot: Fonda and Madeleine Carroll, having taken refuge in a cellar during an air raid, deciding they are permanently entombed when a pile of loose bricks blocks the windows.

The Toy Wife (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) makes it clear that, having twice won the Cinema Academy’s prize for acting, Luise Rainer has no intention of resting on her laurels. Eyes brimming, lips twitching and little voice choked with tears,, she goes all out for a third award, this time in the classic role of a belle of New Orleans. Unfortunately for Miss Rainer’s aspirations and the entertainment value of this picture, a great deal of cinema film has run through projection machines since old New Orleans was first presented as the epitome of U. S. historical glamor. Nowadays it does not seem much better than a bore, and all the flounced dresses, veranda columns and old plantation dialogue in Hollywood—on which The Toy Wife appears to be trying to corner the market—cannot completely change it. Produced with MGM’s customarily scrupulous attention to visual detail, the picture relates with considerable pictorial beauty the lachrymose story of Gilberte Brigard, nicknamed “Frou Frou.” Pretty, light-headed little Frou Frou makes the mistake of marrying a serious young lawyer, George Sartoris (Melvyn Douglas), with whom her sister (Barbara O’Neil) is in love. When, dissatisfied with the way she runs his household, he calls in the sister to assist her, Frou Frou is so broken-hearted that she runs away. Naturally, she does not run away alone; naturally, her escort is an irresponsible young gambler (Robert Young). Result of this situation is the inevitable duel. Result of the duel is Miss Rainer’s best burst of blubbering since the one which got her her first Oscar in The Great Ziegfeld. Overdressed and antiquated, The Toy Wife redeems some of its defects by a conclusion which, to cinemaddicts who are infected by the spirit of the story, can be recommended as one of the saddest of the year, and by a gallery of miniature performances by little-known colored actors who, though they may win no Academy prizes, will have eminently earned them.