Films

Acting is an element of minor importance in the making of a movie: many a fine film, compounded of story, directorial, photographic and editing excellences, has been none the worse for an entire cast of mediocre actors. But when a story revolves around one powerful, pivotal character, and when that character is "a grand, ungodly, god-like man" who looks like someone "cut away from the stake," a man "gnawed within and scorched without with the infixed, unrelenting fangs of some incurable idea," then that character requires an actor, and a great one, or the story should never be filmed at all. Such a story is Melville's Moby Dick, which John Huston 20 years ago dreamed of filming, with his father – the famous, fiery Walter – as that Promethean character, Captain Ahab, who sends himself, his ship and his crew to the ocean floor in the course of his vengeful killing of the whale who chewed off his leg. For some reason, the dream was shelved; Walter Huston never played Ahab; and when, after his death, son John revived the dream and realized it, his perverse, incredible choice for the role was Gregory Peck. The film Huston made has all the earmarks of a cinematic masterpiece: the screenplay, distilled from Melville with great craft by Ray Bradbury, is a gem; the direction is strong, secure and sensitive; the photography ravishes the eye; the editing is sharp and deft; and even the actors, perfectly cast, do their work with skill and assurance – all save one. Despite masterful make-up, cunning camera angles, wily coaching and the ominous sound of massed trombones on the soundtrack, Peck (a nice guy who did his best) is a feeble, tiny, impotent, totally inadequate Ahab. Hence, Moby Dick, which might have been the best film of the decade, is, rather, one of the most woeful wastes in the history of the screen: a beautiful, hollow shell.

Jouncy Judy Holliday is a raucous ten-share holder who battles a conniving board of directors in The Solid Gold Cadillac. Her way with whimsy is beautifully brutal as she steams ahead with those double-takes, non-sequiturs and wide-eyed wisecracks that have become her trademark. Paul Douglas is the tycoon who kills the corporate dragon and gets the girl, but the whole cast is mere background for the spoof and spark of Holliday.

The Bad Seed has set the care and raising of children back a good distance: wise parents now frisk their kiddies for cosh and shiv every night before beddy-bye. Hollywood's Mervyn LeRoy has picked up the entire Broadway cast and told the whole gory business in the eeriest, most chilling horror story of the year. Nancy Kelly (who may cop an Oscar) is the distraught mama who slowly gets wise that her only kid, a psychopathic Goody Two Shoes played by Patty McCormack, is running up a murder score that's crowding Jack the Ripper's. Shrewd, savage, cunning, our perverted Shirley Temple is a one-moppet crime wave who kills for a trinket or a toy. Br-r-r-r!

Ole! An imposing newsreel anthology titled Bull Fight offers a chilling panorama of classic bull sticking during the past 50 years. Displaying no nerves at all, and carving up a lot of pot roast, are such renowned ear-and-hoofers as Belmonte, Joselito, Dominguín and the magnificent Manolete. Yankee audiences may find the goring scenes a bit too vivid, but one of those two murderous males in the ring has got to lose.

Stanley Kubrick: remember the name. Yes, that's right, he's the fellow who turned out the awfully arty and self-conscious Fear and Desire a couple of years ago, but every guy is permitted a warm-up, isn't he? As of today, the talented, thirtyish Mr. K is warmed up to fever pitch. For The Killing is a taut, lean, diamond-hard, diamond-bright case history of a two million dollar heist that will leave the popcorn unchewed and forgotten in your mouth. Writer-director Kubrick, with the help of a sturdy story and some beat-up B-actors, has made a fine, fast, filmic film that (if you leave two minutes before the phony, crime-doesn't-pay ending) will convince you movies are better than ever.

Guess what? Hollywood has created a musical without one chorus girl, one tap dancer or any references to the bitter-sweet life of a Show Biz Trouper. The name of it is High Society and it is delightful.

For those who've forgotten the plot of Philip Barry's stylish Philadelphia Story (on which this romp is based), it has to do with a frigidheiress (Grace Kelly) who divorces husband No. 1 (Bing Crosby) and who, several years later, decides to take on a crashing bore (John Lund) as hubby No. 2. Bing isn't buying this for the good reason that he's still ga-ga over Grace. Reporters Frank Sinatra and Celeste Holm arrive to cover the nuptials and everybody flies in a tangled maze of high society shenanigans. The locale of all the fun has been switched from Philly to Newport, Rhode Island, and Cole Porter has thrown together nine original tunes for the occasion. Most memorable: Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, a sparkling novelty number done up by Frank and Celeste; and a gay, goofy roundelay titled Well Did You Evah?, kicked around by Sinatra, bathed in champagne, and Crosby, tending a battered heart. The songs aren't the best Porter ever penned, but they're a cut above average for a filmusical and serve as a most pleasant adjunct to this light soufflé in which you see (as Celeste Holm cracks) ". . . the privileged class enjoying their privileges." Louis Armstrong tootles a trumpet and gargles some good-natured vocals, too.