The New Pictures

The Iron Curtain (20th Century-Fox) is the fact-fictional story of the Soviet-Canadian atomic spy ring, and of how it was cracked (TIME, March 11, 1946). It centers on the Soviet Embassy Code Clerk Igor Gouzenko (Dana Andrews with a short haircut) who did the cracking. An odd blend of naivete and expert craftsmanship, the picture is an above-average spine-chiller. It is also topnotch anti-Communist propaganda.

In spite of some minor implausibilities, The Iron Curtain is a scrupulous and restrained movie, as well as a persuasive and exciting one. Under William Wellman's taut direction, it catches something of the soul-freezing discipline and mutual mistrust which must be the normal climate for totalitarian operations; something, too, of the way ardent amateurs in "front" groups are exploited. And near the end, when Gouzenko is trying hopelessly to find a Canadian who will listen to his story while the pursuers close in, the suspense is really awful.

If this were no more than a mere thriller, it would be quibbling to point out that a few patches are hard to swallow. One agent manages to decode a message while sitting in the back seat of a moving auto, at night. After betraying his government, Gouzenko seems astonished to hear what will happen to his family and his wife's (Gene Tierney), although he has lived in Soviet Russia most of his life, and is a seasoned professional agent. His reasons for changing sides are also rather thinly explored ; and some of the top spies are such blatant fiends that the most innocent man in the street could spot them a block away. But such imperfections hardly lessen the impact of the picture as a whole.

That impact was recognized and feared by the Stalinists and their friends from the time the picture was being made. Red-front groups did whatever they could to obstruct shooting in Ottawa. Now that the picture is finished, they are voluminously protesting to Hollywood and the press, murmuring of libel suits, threatening to boycott Manhattan's Roxy Theater for a year if the picture is shown there. But 20th Century-Fox intends to open it simultaneously in 500 U.S. theaters.

The film tells much less--in quantity--about Communist spy activities than the daily press has already told. Yet the alarm and breast-beating of the opposition are an understandable tribute to the enormous and unique power of motion picture propaganda in general, and of this film in particular.

The Sainted Sisters (Paramount) are daintily tough Veronica Lake and delicious Joan Caulfield. In flight from the New York police (circa 1895), they stop off for a con girls' holiday in a little town in Maine. They hole up with Barry Fitzgerald, the solidest down-Easter this side of Galway, and get busy fleecing the yokels.

Joan isn't much good at keeping her mind on her business; whenever a man stands upwind from her, she tends to go buttery-eyed (a trick for which Miss Caulfield has a pretty talent). Veronica has to be coldhearted enough for both of them; but as it turns out, she is vulnerable, too. Both fall for an earnest, shabby oaf (well played by George Reeves) who dreams of modernizing his community with a power plant. Both help raise the money which will make his dream come true. And both plan to make off with it, love or no love.

This oldtime, gosh-all-Friday comedy-drama is served up by people who obviously admire Writer-Director Preston Sturges and his cynical gift for playing both ends of a cliche against the audience's middle. Nothing is too stale or too simpleminded: a sheriff (William Demarest) trying to be heroic with one leg in a low-comedy plaster cast; a brat tormenting the neighborhood with trombone practice. But most of it is quite funny, and besides his feeling for slapstick and travesty, Director William Russell knows how to shade in some sharp authenticity. The most redolent blend of realism and caricature is Beulah Bondi as the richest woman in town. Another pleasing sight is Veronica Lake as a charming and capable comedienne. Good line: Veronica brushing off an infatuated ten-year-old with a brisk "I'm spoke for."

Letter from an Unknown Woman (Universal-International) an adaptation of a novelette by Stefan Zweig, has the makings of an engaging kind of romantic movie that Hollywood seems to have lost its knack for. The setting is Old (turn-of-the-century) Vienna. The story: what happens when romantic love collides with fly-by-night love. The manner of telling is a blend of nostalgia and sad worldly-wisdom.

Lisa (Joan Fontaine), a girl in her middle teens, falls hopelessly in love with a smooth concert pianist (Louis Jourdan) who takes rooms across the hall. Busy with more full-blown girls, he scarcely realizes that she exists. When her family moves, Lisa cannot endure the separation; she runs away, and haunts certain Viennese coffee houses and street corners until the pianist picks her up. During their short affair her lover experiences a faint glimmer of tenderness which might end his philandering, but it doesn't register strongly enough for him to bother looking her up when he returns from a concert tour. Lisa bears his child, marries rich for his son's sake, tries to make a life for herself--but again, with her next glimpse of the pianist, she abandons everything for him.

These sudsy romantics are elegantly produced by John Houseman and directed by Austrian Max Opuls who, back in the early '30s, made one of the finest pictures of this genre--Schnitzler's Liebelei. Opuls knows all there is to know about romantic values: flirtations in the Prater, late on a winter night; a military band concert in a provincial city; the way a veteran roue misunderstands a refined and ardent woman. Some of his scenes have such strong visual charm that the dialogue recedes to a sort of musical accompaniment. But by & large the movie talks rather than sings --and talks too much and too long.

It is hard to recreate a bygone period in a foreign studio and to achieve much lyrical eloquence when silence is almost as taboo on the screen as in radio. The role of the heroine would have been an ideal light workout for an actress of great sensitivity: Garbo, for instance. Miss Fontaine is intelligent and industrious, but she is never a magician. Since nearly 90% of the picture depends on her, the whole show suffers accordingly. Louis Jourdan is more convincing in his easier role. Letter is a good try, but a disappointing film.

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