Cinema: The New Pictures: Oct. 22, 1934

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story, are Powell's songs: "Happiness Ahead," "Pop Goes Your Heart," "Beauty Must Be Loved." Madame du Barry (Warner) is a conscientious, heavy-handed effort to tell the story of one of the most exciting women who ever lived. It begins when Madame du Barry (Dolores Del Rio) is brought to Louis XV (Reginald Owen) as nominee for a place in a distinguished line of mis tresses, and ends shortly before the Revolution when, with Louis dead and his watchmaker-grandson on the throne, du Barry is led off to prison. In the interim, she has gone sleigh-riding in midsummer on snow contrived of sugar; made her pickaninny body-servant Governor of Provence; averted war with England; given her jewels to the poor; and presented herself at court in her nightgown. All of this is told with credibility if not with historic accuracy, and acted with superb vitality by Dolores Del Rio. The trouble with Madame du Barry as entertainment is that human relationships are never clearly established. Louis' deathbed scene, when he and du Barry are remembering all the fun they have had, proves disappointing because the audience has never been told whether du Barry liked the old king or merely utilized him.

The Gay Divorcee (RKO). In adapting the successful musicomedy which kept Dancer Fred Astaire busy for a year in Manhattan and London, RKO's most apparent change was to insert an accent and an extra e in the last word of the title. This should cause no greater harm than mispronunciation among cinemaddicts. For the rest, the picture sticks to the pattern of its footlight original, with satisfactory results. Fred Astaire is still the centre of whatever plot there is. A dancer on a European holiday, he pursues a young lady (Ginger Rogers) who is seeking divorce from an absurd geologist. There appear the impediments customary in musicomedy romance. Astaire is mistaken for a professional corespondent whom the young lady's guardians (Alice Brady and Edward Everett Horton) have ordered from an agency. A fatuous waiter makes ridiculous monologs. At odd moments a comely chorus dances, sings and wears elaborate costumes. Xone of this inter feres with the elegant genuflections or swift bright patter of Fred Astaire who, next to Bill Robinson the most nimble-footed hoofer on the U. S. stage, is rapidly developing into a first-class cinema come dian. Good shot: Astaire putting on his tie, coat and hat thrown to him by his valet as he sings, tap-dances about the room.