Victory (Paramount). In its present phase of escapist entertainment, the cinema can think of no more useful place to train its cameras than on the moody background of the East Indies. And no writer of English fiction used that background with more skill than Polish-born Novelist Joseph Conrad. Sooner or later, Hollywood was sure to dig further into his work for a scenario.
In Conrad's Victory (first made in 1919), Paramount had the vitals of a really scary thriller. The dreadful days on the little island of Samburan when creepy Mr. Jones and his two frightening assistants were looking for some swag can curl the hair of the most composed reader. Axel Heyst, mustachioed philosopher who lives in seclusion on the island with his Chinese servant, has heroic proportions. The howling storm which engulfs the last stages of the drama is great theatre. Alma, the helpless, buffeted pianist who escapes with Heyst to the peace of Samburan from oppression in an itinerant girls' band, is a charming romantic touch.
But on the screen, due to constructional troubles, these sure-fire ingredients never quite jell into good melodrama. Scenarist John Balderston's script spends so much valuable time setting the scene and building the characters, it has to whisk through Mr. Jones's horrendous visit to Samburan. A line-up of Hollywood's most finished actors, nicely guided by the delicate directional hand of John Cromwell, holds long points, like patient bird dogs, for the chills. Then in a few hurried strokes, the villains are disposed of and it is time for the clinch.
Fredric March with his solid, unruffled disposition makes a neat and finished sketch of the brooding Heyst; Sir Cedric Hardwicke is as sinister as a haunted house with his bland, cobra-like Mr. Jones; Jerome Cowan, mouthing claxon-like Cockney accents, draws an ugly but adept picture of a psychopathic killer; sparrow-voiced Betty Field turns the mousy Alma into a heroine with dimensions. But it is an actor's movie. There is never any real suspense in a story where suspense is the hallmark.
Betty Field is still called a newcomer by Hollywood commentators. That is because she has been there less than two years. Yet in terms of cinema success, she is a hoary veteran; she scored a hit in Of Mice and Men a year ago. What makes Betty obscure is her preoccupation with her work. Unlike most cinemactresses of 22, Betty has a theatrical background, and she takes her acting seriously. Between scenes, she sits quietly in a corner or retreats to her dressing room to study French and Spanish.
Her career began eight years ago when she entered Manhattan's American Academy of Dramatic Arts. After graduating from the Academy, Betty understudied on Broadway, then landed the ingenue lead in the London production of She Loves Me Not. Soon she caught the eye of Producer George Abbott, who stuck her in Three Men on a Horse and five other comedies before Hollywood whistled with a fancy five-year contract. Currently on furlough, she is acting the lead in Elmer Rice's new play, Flight to the West, which opened on Broadway this week.