The New Pictures

Tin Pan Alley (20th Century-Fox) is Cinema Historian Darryl Zanuck's latest peek into the annals of U. S. song. His previous rummages have covered popular music from early Stephen Foster days to latest Irving Berlin. Tin Pan Alley, going to no extremes in either history or histrionics, merely parenthesizes a few years before and during World War I, punctuates them with such pleasant oldtime numbers as Moonlight Bay, K-K-K-Katy. A few anachronisms like Honeysuckle Rose and The Sheik of Araby are also thrown in, on the Hollywood theory that anything older than Who is so far back nobody will care in what year it was written.

Since the story is no more than an excuse to keep the performers occupied between numbers, Producer Zanuck treats it like an ugly stepchild. Its principal function is to present the cheesecake of the cast--blonde, lethargic Alice Faye and blonde, lithe Betty Grable--as the sister act of Katie and Lily Blane. Capitalizing on their more obvious assets, the film sets Alice and Betty wriggling and crooning in cellophane hula skirts and harem costumes. Clearly neither of the girls cares to hand over the picture to the other, and their artistic competition results in a standoff. Miss Faye, now somewhat more mature than Miss Grable, has the better voice; Miss Grable the slimmer wriggle. The rest of the activity centres around two Irish song publishers, Calhoun and Harrigan (fat Jack Oakie and thin John Payne), who contribute respectively comic and romantic relief. When Author Pamela Harris' plot pushes them into the A. E. F., the time arrives for America, I Love You, Goodbye Broadway, Hello France.

The musical is still the medium where Producer Zanuck is most at home. Although he dropped his sparkling early tongue-in-cheek technique (Thanks a Million) in favor of opulence, he still knows how to keep the good songs ringing clear.

Lady with Red Hair (Warner Bros.) is the late Mrs. Leslie Carter, darling of U. S. theatre audiences during the gargoyled era at the turn of the Century. Revived for screen biography by yellow-haired Miriam Hopkins, she appears for cinemaudiences as a talentless, whining, ungrateful Trilby to mop-headed, cleric-collared Producer David Belasco's (Claude Rains) Svengali.

Whether Mrs. Carter was a great actress or a notorious curiosity is still a moot point among theatrical greybeards. Warner Bros., rather than classifying Mrs. Carter, merely add another volume to the screen's countless observations on show business. Out of a welter of stock theatrical characters, only Rains's David Belasco and a blustering boardinghouse keeper played by Helen Westley emerge entertainingly. Claude Rains draws a penetrating bead on the egotistical Broadway impresario. Helen Westley's corned-beef-&-cabbage exterior provides many a welcome guffaw.

Melody Ranch (Republic) is no ordinary Gene Autry western. At busy little Republic studios, the cinema's most constant source of sagebrush sagas, the conventional eclogue on the majesty of ranch life has been switched to an offensive against the pitfalls of the city by showing the studio's crack cowboy taking a lacing from the rough, tough Wildhack Boys (Barton MacLane, Joseph Sawyer, Horace MacMahon) after a few months in a Hollywood broadcasting studio have softened up the Autry biceps. It is not a pretty sight.

It all happens when Gene goes back to his home town of Torpedo to act as honorary sheriff for a local celebration. The Wildhacks have been running Torpedo from an upstairs gambling room in their saloon, and poor old Pop (George "Gabby" Hayes), the good, grizzled, granddaddy of the town, has all but given up hope for happy days again. When Gene is slapped around by the Wildhacks, Pop has to take him out to Melody Ranch for some western air and exercise before Gene can dish out the necessary retribution.

In allowing its prize package this lapse in physical supremacy, Republic may be taking a grave risk. Previous box-office receipts indicate the country likes him rugged. Possibly as a sop, Republic gives the customers some extra favors. Long-legged Tap Dancer Ann Miller (Too Many Girls) swings through a lively dance routine, croons a torchy ballad. Jimmy Durante garbles his Bronxese with dialogue like: "I resemble dat remark! . . . Dat's libel! . . . It's libel to make me mad."

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