Word: boudoirs
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...historical novels (Tap Roots, Goodbye, My Lady), who began at 20 as a Baptist minister, became a newspaperman (A. P., New York World-Telegram) until free-lance success in the late '30s allowed him to devote all his time to his facile tales of slave trading,dueling and boudoir derring-do; of a heart ailment; at Chapel Hill...
...considerably shorter if his heroines knew about zippers, is off meandering again, this time in his native Finland. This volume consists of five not-very-short stories. The title yarn tells what happens to the unbuttoned country girl: she grows up to be a movie star with a boudoir-view of life ("There are no impotent men, only unskilled women, don't you think?"). Another story, The Tie from Paris, is about a middle-aged banker whose pretty young secretary tells him one day: "You've got marvelous hands-they make me go all limp." The trouble begins...
Languid Infatuation. What Director Ophuls has made of these boudoir trivialities is a veritable Fragonard in motion. Not since Jacques Feyder's Carnival in Flanders has a picture tried so many things at once and brought them all off so well. To begin with, the wonderfully overdone upper-class interiors (designed by Jean d'Eaubonne) are photographed with a languid infatuation that moviegoers who saw La Ronde and Le Plaisir will recognize as characteristically Ophulent. And yet, at the same time, it is clear that Ophuls is unmistakably smiling at his own bad taste...
Strangely enough, ten seductions become tedious, although Anton Walbrook does his best to keep between boudoir scenes diverting. Representing himself as "everyone and no one," Walbrook leads the merry-go-round as an omniscient spectator, introducing the participants and commenting wryly on the spectacle. At appropriate moments, the camera leaves the lovers and returns to the master of ceremonies. One suspects, however, that these exits have become hastier since the film's Boston debut, and that the bedroom lights fade out much sooner than director Max Ophulus intended...
Casanova's Big Night (Paramount). "I'll scream for help," the lady protests, and no wonder. The Technicolored thing that has just waddled into her boudoir looks something like Louis XIV converted into a floor lamp. It turns out to be Bob Hope, cast as a sort of tailor's dummy who wishes he were man enough to fill Casanova's britches. And to the lady Hope replies (in a long, low-slung, sports-model voice that slides up to the listener's mental curb and honks suggestively): "I don't need any help...