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One of a slew of late 40s Hollywood musicals about show biz folks, this film stands out for the charm of Dan Dailey and the warmth and sparkle that he enjoys with his co-star, Anne Baxter. They play a married couple who also share a vaudeville stage and then a silent film career. When talking pictures come in, the usual troubles of transition unfold, with Baxter making it big and Dailey, eventually, deciding to stay as a song-and-dance man. Along the way a score of great songs from the teens and 20s allow Dailey not only to display his talents as a hoofer (to choreography by the great Nick Castle), but to sing (the title song is worth the price of admission). Not by any means as good as 1951's "Singing in the Rain" which also concerns the transition to talkies, "You're My Everything" is nonetheless a highly entertaining, indeed lovable, picture.

"White Christmas" is guilty of many of the sins catalogued by other commentators: its got a sappy story line, predictable plot twists, it plays outrageously for sentiment and patriotism (not your usual Christmas theme!). But I confess to having loved it from the first moment I saw it nearly a half century ago. I, too, like many, make it a point to view it every Christmas season, along with much better holiday fare such as "It's a Wonderful Life," "The Wizard of Oz," and "Miracle on 34th Street." I think, contrary to many folks, that Danny Kaye succeeds in the second lead role better than Fred Astaire did in "Holiday Inn," and while he isn't given an opportunity for his patented zaniness, he adds a thoroughgoing charm to the role that sometimes the rather stiff Astaire lacks.

Rosemary Clooney is lovely in the rather thankless role of the practical sister and was at the peak of her genius as a pop singer, Vera-Ellen does her usually charming thing, and Crosby! The master implants his genius in virtually every frame. In supporting roles veteran character actor Dean Jagger is splendid as the general, while Mary Wickes steals every scene she's in as the nosy hotel housekeeper, Emma. The singing and dancing are first-rate (even without Astaire), and the songs by Irving Berlin are among his very best, including a number of tunes written especially for the film. One that never ceases to charm me is the trifle, "Snow," sung by our four stars in the dining car of the railroad train bound from Florida to Vermont. What a magical moment, among many in this thoroughly delightful, if flawed, jewel.

Rarely has such a star-studded cast and crew been so wasted as in this deeply-flawed quasi-historical account of the career of the Mexican bandit-patriot Pancho Villa. Yul Brynner is woefully miscast in the lead, Robert Mitchum sleepwalks his way through the film (as usual). Only Charles Bronson contributes any punch or power to the film (no, Herbert Lom is also fine as the corrupt and vicious General Huerta). I understand that Sam Pekinpah, who wrote the original screenplay and was replaced at the urging of star Brynner, disavowed any responsibility for what resulted, as did the writer Robert Towne, who replaced him. A sad mess.