The New Pictures

Haunted Honeymoon (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer) introduces cinemaddicts to the smartly foppish, irreverently whimsical activities of Detective Lord Peter Wimsey (Robert Montgomery), long adored by readers of British Crime Fictioneer Dorothy Sayers. Diving into the middle of his career, the film finds Lord Peter wedded with Harriet Vane (Constance Cummings), a mystery novelist whom he once rescued from a murder charge. On a honeymoon in a cottage in rural England, they are pleasing each other with glib, well-tailored wisecracks when the body is found in the cellar.

From then on. Haunted Honeymoon, called Busman's Honeymoon by Author Sayers, occupies itself principally with whether or not Lord Peter will continue his merry vacation or pause long enough to straighten out the befuddled police. While a medley of thick British accents, swelled by the rasp of slinky Robert Newton, spouts fluffy repartee, Lord Peter is exposed to all the ramifications of the mystery. Inevitably, he makes the gracious gesture, effortlessly unravels the dilemma, whisks his bride off in a roadster to quieter surroundings.

Constantly British, Haunted Honeymoon politely reflects none of the troubled atmosphere in which it was concocted. When the Denham studios near London, a temporary food storehouse, were cleared for normal duty early last spring, Director Arthur Woods took time off from his duties as an R. A. F. pilot to conduct his actors through their capers. Cast and crew were threatened with Nazi bombing by Lord Haw-Haw three days after shooting commenced, but struggled through unmolested, paused only for BBC newscasts in a projection room thrice daily.

With work completed, Montgomery sallied to France where he put in three weeks driving a Red Cross ambulance. Back in the U. S. he became Hollywood's foremost authority on World War II. Three weeks ago, he vexed Hollywood with the jibe that "any resemblance between the motion-picture industry and creative art is purely coincidental."

Seven Sinners (Universal) is top cut for fans who like rum, rowdyism and rebellion in their movies. Beginning and ending the film with a pair of extemporaneous Armageddons. slight, dapper, grey-haired Director Tay Garnett, Hollywood's specialist in mayhem, spent $19,580 of Universal money on:

> Thirty stunt men at $35 a day for eleven days of continuous brawling.

> Twenty-four broken tables at $15 apiece.

>Seventy-two broken chairs at $10 each.

> A smashed bar, pool table, staircase, worth $3,000 in all.

>Spoiled clothing amounting to $2,000.

> Two special stunts--a fall from a balcony, a leap through the air that ends by smashing a bar--at $250 each.

>Two semi-special stunts--falling from a staircase, a long leap--at $200 each.

> Eight mediocre leaps at $100 each.

> Twenty-five run-of-the-mill falls at $50 each.

> Unexpected damage: a bruised shoulder on a $200 stunt man, concussion of the brain for Broderick Crawford after a flower pot broke on his head.

In between, Director Garnett fashioned the second episode in Universal's resuscitation of drowsy Marlene Dietrich. Traipsing through the islands of the East Indies with a trollop's parasol and two larcenous bodyguards (Broderick Crawford and Mischa Auer), she encounters a well-groomed wing of the U. S. Navy, casts languorous glances at a promising lieutenant, sings a dolorous chant beginning: "See those shoulders broad and glorious? See that smile? That smile's notorious. You can bet your life the man's in the Navy,"* at a cafe conducted by wheezing Billy Gilbert.

The result should be more beneficial to the Navy than to Miss Dietrich.

Escape (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer). Hollywood maintains a constant vigil these days for anti-fascist material with lots of bing-bang action. The appearance of pseudonymous Ethel Vance's novel Escape last year set off a scramble for its cinema rights which ended with an M. G. M. victory costing $50,000. It was worth it.

The essence of Escape was its tingling suspense. A great German actress (Alia Nazimova), who returned from the U. S. to sell her property, is sentenced to death by the Nazis for some inadvertent but illegal financial finagling. Her U. S.-born son (Robert Taylor), sniffing along her hidden trail, discovers her plight only a few days before the execution. The nerve-racking series of events which constitute his blundering, inept attempts at rescue are enough to frazzle the composure of the most hardened cinemaddicts.

Escape is also a powerful true bill against Naziism's ruthlessness. The villain of the story, rather than any individual, is the system. Its personification is in the machinelike personality of a Prussian general (Conrad Veidt), the helplessness of a sympathetic Nazi doctor (Philip Dorn).

Outspoken, aggressive little Director Mervyn Le Roy lost none of the story in transposing it to the screen. Even the saccharine qualities of Norma Shearer are skillfully tempered to fit the regenerated Countess. Only Robert Taylor, unfairly injected into big-league competition, falls behind the pace. But Director Le Roy's combination is too strong to be defeated by this single handicap.

* Copyright 1940, Universal Music Corporation.

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