fairb

There are moments in the film that are so dreadful, your teeth ache. But knowing that there were only weeks left before the Code made movies innocuous and bland, Paramount rushed this into production before innuendo and leering went out of style. Vanities is so horrifically anti-female that it's delicious. As Kitty Carlisle sings, women are displayed with price tags that would insult a Bronx hooker. They emerge from clams (nudge,nudge;wink,wink) in postures of absolute submission. Minions of the law, so stupid they cannot find the door, get to look up their skirts and snicker. Bare-breasted chorus girls sit uncomfortably in giant cacti (Could they be a source of hallucinogens, perhaps?) while we listen to "Sweet Marijuana" and watch as blood falls on a chorines's breast.

Sure, Carl Brisson learned his lines phonetically and doesn't seem to have a clue what he is saying. But it's all worth it as Norma steals the show while no one is looking.

Taking one moment of this fragile fluff seriously is missing the point of the whole exercise. Watch this with a charter member of NOW and prepare to justify the whole Hollywood machismo sch tick between body blows.

Toby Wing, by the way, is the icing on the cake. And Duke Ellington doesn't hurt either.

A must stroll down Memory Lane.

This is not a great film; however, it is great movie-making. The actors are all pro's who move the plot{sic} forward at each step of the film. Basil Rathbone, an excellent actor who all too often was given lines that would make a lesser man gag, remains the ultimate Holmes, sparing us the Freudian glimpses of his dark soul. The ending tends to be somewhat crass and contrived; however, it is carried off with panache and verve and the final speech doesn't seem quite as dated as it should. The photography, editing, and pace are examples of what movies once were and can never be again. At less than 70 minutes, this is an investment in excellence not to be missed by anyone who wants to know how to make something out of nothing.

With a small budget, Mr. Roper populates a railroad station with a large cast of extras who do very little but give a false sense of grandeur. We are introduced to a cast of characters who could, under certain circumstances, be interesting. There is a McGuffen that holds promise for fascinating interaction and believable action.

None of these things occur.

The mismatched cast bumbles through dialogue unfit for human consumption. The continuity is so bad that sections of the transparent plot simply seem to disappear. But it all grinds on in weary tedium until someone, I forget just who, blows up something and everyone kisses and makes up somewhere in Bulgaria or another.

In the fifties, this thing would go directly to a drive-in to be shown late at night to clear out the loiterers. Today, it has no place in the company of art and artists. Please, God, let there not be a sequel.