(See Cover)
Out of the Paramount Studio in Hollywood last week came some of the most uninhibited, daffy nonsense to hit the U. S. screen since the heyday of Harold Lloyd. It was Road to Zanzibar, and its principal assets were two recruits from radio who bounced gaily through its inanities like a pair of playful puppies. For one of them, Bob Hope, it was the tenth film in a new and rapidly rising movie career; for the other, Bing Crosby, a dulcet, broken-toned singer who has confounded all the rules of show business for more than ten years, it was his...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
