The New Pictures

Winter Meeting (Warner) tells about a brief encounter between an "aristocratic poetess" of old New England stock (Bette Davis) and a plebeian war hero of Polish immigrant stock (James Davis, no kin). For 104 minutes they do almost nothing but talk--and then finally decide not to get married. The decision saves them from a life of such boring conversation as:

He (shortly after they meet): "You look as if you had ancestors."

She (anticipating his first pass): "We seem constantly at swords' points."

He (after she cooks breakfast): "I guess I just never ran into a girl as bright as you."

She (next day at her country house): "Would you like to pop corn?"

He: "Lead me to it!"

She (as he munches): "I like the way your mouth moves. It's fascinating."

He (as the fire burns low): "All my life I wanted--planned on being a priest."

She: "And all the time I thought it was something about me."

He (giving up the priesthood): "I want to marry you."

She: "No, you'll rot little by little in small pieces."

With many more pictures like this, Miss Davis's prestige may suffer the same fate.

B.F.'s Daughter (MGM) dilutes the never-too-potent subacids of J. P. Marquand's socio-political satire into the sort of eyewash that is the chief ingredient of every "woman's picture." Marquand fans may be surprised at how easily the acid lost its effect; most moviegoers are sure to blink unhappily at what is left.

The movie (like the novel) propounds the obvious: that when a poor man (Van Heflin) marries a rich girl (Barbara Stanwyck) her money is a problem. The passages satirizing Wall Street and the New Deal are so plainly extraneous and contrived that even the actors seem embarrassed. In the end, Right & Left are reconciled in one mighty smooch in a darkened Washington apartment.

Saigon (Paramount), where Alan Ladd turns up with Veronica Lake after his fatiguing operations in China and Calcutta, concerns a lot of Amerasian hugger-mugger over a stray $500,000. During the film, at least three well-paid players die for the purpose of bringing Alan and Veronica together. It seems a shocking waste of life until, doubtless referring to all the money Saigon is sure to make at the box office, Paramount has Veronica explain: "All this happened because it had to happen."

Scudda Hoo! Scudda Hay! (20th Century-Fox) would undoubtedly make a big hit with mules; presumably they already know what the title means (gee & haw in mulese). The leading roles in this movie are played by two of the most gorgeous, henna hay-burners that ever plodded out of a studio make-up salon. The picture may also appeal to some children; it tells how a horde of anti-mule, glue-factory-minded grownups are foiled by a pro-mule boy (Lon McCallister) and his girl (June Haver). Adult people and horses may resent the film's hee-hawed refrain: that mules are smarter than either of them.

Dreams That Money Can Buy (Films International) was filmed in a loft in Manhattan's garment district. The shooting continued in short bursts from 1944 to 1947, whenever the film's unpaid writers, actors, cameramen, painters and musicians could get together. It was produced, directed and partially paid for (total cost: $25,000) by Hans Richter, a well-known abstract painter and avant-garde moviemaker (Rhythms 21, 23 and 25, Ghosts Before Noon) who is now teaching cinematography at the City College of New York. This week the film will start the rounds of some 300 U.S. "art" movie houses.

The picture is composed of seven rather short, completely unrelated episodes. Six were suggested by five of Richter's friends: Surrealist Max Ernst, Abstractionist Fernand Leger, Surrealist Man Ray, Abstractionist Marcel Duchamp, Non-Objectivist Alexander Calder (who suggested two); Surrealist Richter himself added a seventh, and bundled all seven into a loose script as dreams sold by a dream peddler named Joe.

Some of his wares:

P: Ernst's Desire, a lover's dream of his mistress' dream of her seduction, is still wide-eyed with the news that dreams have sexual content; Ernst keeps fondling the idea with damp palms.

P: Leger's satiric The Girl with the Prefabricated Heart is a delightfully well-scored (by John Latouche) musicomedy skit concerning the plaster passions of two store-window mannikins.

P: Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase is composed of a series of designs painted on hypnotically revolving records, which fairly unscrew the eye in a head-bursting seven minutes of "optical puns."

P: Calder's A Ballet on the Universe inspects the mildly interesting interplay of the shadow & substance of some of his "mobile" sculpture; his Circus is a display of some much-too-cunning wire figures in action.

Arty, avant-garde experimenting frequently uncovers new approaches or techniques that are eventually taken over by older or more popular art forms. But Dreams seems to be, in the most empty and tinny sense, a frivolous party game played by Left-Bankrupts.

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