(2 of 3)
The dizzy foolishness of this sodapop operetta is made more foolish by its opulence. Every good thing about it is lavishly doubled or tripled. There are two prodigies and two frustrated opera-singer parents kicking them up to stardom, two comics (Jules Munshin and Keenan Wynn) and two imperturbable renegades from the fine arts (Ethel Barrymore and Jose Iturbi). Among the players, only Thomas Gomez (whose portrait of a tenor warming up his tonsils spoofs both tenor and script) seems to be having any fun in the machine comedy.
The one pleasant surprise in That Midnight Kiss is Mario Lanza, a young (27) tenor with the spry, nonsensical air of a chipmunk and an Americanized-Caruso voice which gives style and seriousness to the whole production. His least appealing quality, which Metro will apparently exploit for some ten musicals, is the smily, complacent bounce which places him in Hollywood's long list of boys who rouse the maternal instinct.
Easy Living (RKO Radio) looks for half a reel like a football yarn. Then it turns into a turgid, second-rate soap opera about a professional football hero (Victor Mature) and his overambitious career-girl wife (Lizabeth Scott).
In his deep-chested, dim-witted fashion, Mature loves his wife. But Lizabeth loves nothing but penthouses, stylish parties and Wall Street wolves who, for a consideration, can boost her to success as an interior decorator. Her pushing ways cost Mature a chance for a secure job as football coach at the state college. The job goes instead to his buddy and teammate, Sonny Tufts.
At this point, to stir up the suds a bit, Mature develops a bad heart and is told to quit the gridiron for good. Not daring to tell his wife, he takes to drink. For several reels the script shuffles about in this shoddy dilemma until it stumbles into a shoddier solution. Halfback Mature's recipe for mending a broken marriage: smear your wife's lipstick across her chin, beat her about the face and tell her you love her. All in all, Easy Living is no great shakes either as education or entertainment.
Top o' the Morning (Paramount) is a strained reworking of one of Paramount's most profitable formulas: the Bing Crosby-Barry Fitzgerald blend of Irish-American humor and whimsy. The first of the series, Going My Way, was a ripe, full-bodied sample of straight dramatic comedy. The second, Welcome Stranger, was a diluted blend of the same ingredients. Top o' the Morning is a heavily watered-down concoction, pleasant to the taste but lacking in punch.
The story is a rickety yarn about the disappearance of the Blarney stone from Blarney Castle, and how a U.S. insurance investigator (Bing) helps the local police sergeant (Barry) to catch the thief. The crime, of course, gets far less footage than Crosby's crooning and a romance between Bing and the sergeant's sloe-eyed daughter (Ann Blyth).
More aggressively Irish than a swinging shillelagh, Top o' the Morning carries a top-heavy complement of assorted brogues, lively jigs and Gaelic gobbledygook. Arthur Shields, brother of Irishman Barry Fitzgerald, acted as technical adviser. The film's best feature: a handful of little-known traditional Irish airs—one of them a love tune sung by Ann Blyth. Its severest handicap: two typical jukebox tunes which Bing is required to sing a few too many times.