Jose Ferrer as (Cyrano de Bergerac) woos Mala Powers (Roxanne), when he’s not too absorbed in his own speeches.

What do you think about people who love the sound of their own voice? Do you find them fascinating, or do you want to strangle them?

We were thinking about this during a recent screening of Cyrano de Bergerac, the famous story about the big-nosed Parisian who loves a young woman named Roxanne, but cannot find the courage to declare his feelings for her. His fear is out of character because, as we discover, Cyrano is a skilled duelist/swordsman (the best in Paris) and happily rushes into dueling matches anywhere, any time.

Cyrano doesn’t normally suffer self-esteem issues when it comes to his nose. As he says, “I glory in this nose of mine. For a great nose indicates a great man.”

Yet, maybe he has reason to be fearful of Roxanne’s rejection. Cyrano’s nose is the least of his unattractive attributes. He also has an exhaustingly verbose personality.

Example: The movie opens with a stage play, but audience-member Cyrano despises the play’s main actor; he thinks the man completely lacks talent. He interrupts the entire play by stating: “[This actor] mouths his verse and moans his tragedies.” Then he launches into a grand speech about acting, drama, his nose, fashion, philosophy, hypocrisy, society in general, and who wants to step outside and settle this man to man!

José Ferrer, in an Oscar-winning performance, plays Cyrano – an inspired casting choice. Ferrer has the ability to memorize gobs of lines and rattle them off effortlessly, as if memorizing lengthy passages were no big deal. His lines sound like liquid velvet and, for a time, you marvel at his speech-making abilities.

Cyrano does not suffer fools. He is arrogant and a show-off, and would be completely unbearable if it weren’t for that schnoz. ”My poor big devil of a nose,” he says, and this, coupled with his determination to help his friends, endears us to him for a while – until our ears wear out.

Cyrano de Bergerac is basically a filmed version of the 1897 “verse drama” by Edmond Rostand, which is based on the life of the real Hercule-Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac. The French released a version in 1950, the same year Hollywood released its drama with as many plumes and oversized collars as you can cram into a single movie. Oh yes, and the talking. Lots and lots of talking.

The movie begins to pick up speed – a little – when Roxanne (Mala Powers) confesses to Cyrano that she’s in love with a young soldier, Christian de Neuvillette (William Prince). She asks Cyrano to look after this boyfriend of hers when they go to battle. Heartbroken Cyrano, ever the gentleman, promises to ensure de Neuvillette’s safety.

Much to Cyrano’s chargrin, however, the young de Neuvillette is without imagination and lacks wit. The poor young slob realizes he is unable to woo Roxanne with his mediocre language skills, so he enlists the aid of Cyrano – he of excessive and flowery language. You likely know the famous plan they hatch, and you’ve probably also wondered why Roxanne, in the dark, cannot tell if Cyrano or her dim-witted boyfriend is speaking to her.

At this point we, the viewers, start to wonder if any of these people are prepared for an actual relationship. No matter! Roxanne loves to hear clever phrases and Cyrano loves to spout ‘em, so perhaps they are well suited for each other after all.

As far as movies go, Cyrano de Bergerac is a bit of an endurance test. You’ll find your mind wandering at times, and you’ll start wondering if the size of Cyrano’s nostrils vary from scene to scene.

SPOILER!! Cyrano dies at the end of the film, in Roxanne’s arms, just as she realizes that all the wooing came from Cyrano and not that dullard, de Neuvillette. We feel relieved when Cyrano finally dies, because it means we don’t have to listen to insufferable speech-making anymore.

If you are a fan of José Ferrer, Cyrano de Bergerac is a film you must see, as it netted Ferrer his only Academy Award. It’s worth noting that Ferrer won over William Holden in Sunset Boulevard, James Stewart in Harvey and Spencer Tracy in Father of the Bride.

Cyrano de Bergerac: starring Jose Ferrer, Mala Powers, William Prince. Directed by Michael Gordon. Written by Carl Foreman. United Artists Corp., 1950, B&W, 115 mins.

Mary Astor (right) is sick of Bette Davis’ cheerful smothering.

Don’t you love a clever and witty antagonist?

In a pivotal scene of the 1941 drama The Great Lie, the antagonist, Mary Astor, is handed a cocktail. She responds brightly, “Oh, I shouldn’t. But how I love to do things I shouldn’t.”

Her demeanor is light, but her words are heavy. She’s directing her comments to her on-screen rival, Bette Davis, who sits across from Astor in this scene, worried that Astor is going to publicly reveal a secret.

The Great Lie offers us a refreshing casting switch. Davis is the self-sacrificing protagonist, while Astor, in her Oscar-winning role, is the unpredictable antagonist. (We’d love to call Astor a villain, the way she sports her glitzy I’m-An-Important-Musician cape.) She relishes the thought of taking everything Davis cares about, then squishing Davis with designer heels.

The Great Lie is a melodrama about two smart and capable women who vie for the affections of the unremarkable George Brent. Brent spurns Astor in favour of Davis, but Astor holds the mother of all trump cards: she’s pregnant with Brent’s child.

No sooner does she reveal this juicy morsel to Davis than Brent disappears while travelling on official government business to South America. Believing Brent to be dead, a grieving Davis convinces Astor to let her raise his child. This would allow Astor to remain unencumbered so she can concentrate on her career as a concert pianist.

It was Davis who insisted Astor play the part of the callous, self-absorbed musician. Astor, who was a pianist in her own right, was the perfect choice for this role. When she plays Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1, she attacks the piano keys as though she’s beating them into musical submission.

(Digression: Composer Max Steiner had fun with this concerto, weaving elements of the piece into the film’s soundtrack.)

Astor is fascinating as the temperamental artist who can be charming with those she likes or wants to use. She is the very definition of a spoiled, indulged celebrity. In one scene she sniffs, “Take this tray away. I hate the smell of food.”

Part of the movie takes place in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Arizona. To preserve the reputation of Astor’s character (she is a single woman in the 1940s, after all), Davis whisks her away to Arizona to await the arrival of the baby. Davis is over-the-moon excited; Astor becomes increasingly bad-tempered. She’s on a dreadful diet, she can’t drink, she has no diversions. Control-freak Davis is even keeping track of the number of cigarettes smoked per day. We, as viewers, start to feel a little sympathetic towards Astor. Those conditions would drive anyone crazy.

Our favorite scene is the one where Davis visits Astor and pitches the idea to raise Astor’s child herself. Astor’s face is an exquisite study in acting: you can see her disbelief, then skepticism, and finally her reluctant agreement. Astor says very little in this scene – Davis does most of the talking – but you can feel what Astor’s thinking. Davis’ plan is ridiculous and improbable, even for 1941, but because Astor believes in it, we believe in it.

The Great Lie may not have a storyline that appeals to everyone. (For Pete’s sake – they’re fighting over George Brent??) However, we encourage you to see an exceptional actress in her well-deserved Oscar-winning performance.

The Great Lie: starring Bette Davis, George Brent, Mary Astor. Directed by Edmund Goulding. Written by Lenore Coffee. Warner Brothers, 1941, B&W, 110 mins.

Happy 107th, Mary! You wear it well, you minx.

Happy Birthday to Mary Astor, who was born on May 3, 1906 – or so her publicist tells us.

To honor dear Mary, we are hosting a blogathon from May 3-10. Please visit the wonderful tributes at the links and on the dates listed below. If you’re able, leave our participants a quick “fan letter”.

Our cohostess for the Mary Astor Blogathon is the lovely and talented Dorian from Tales of the Easily Distracted. If you’d like to get even more information on the blogathon, you can visit her blog here.

Thanks to our contributors for your enthusiasm and all the Mary love.

If you haven’t been following Classic Movie Night’s terrific blog, we urge you to do so. There are posts on celebrity birthdays, festivals, and all kinds of classic movie news. They do it all!

In accordance with the rules of this blog, here are seven things about us that will shock you:

Shocking Fact #1: We do not eat white dessert.

Shocking Fact #2:  We cannot handle too much caffeine. If we have a fully-caffeinated latte, we are completely unintelligible.

Shocking Fact #3: Our secret guilty pleasure is the Annette Funicello-Frankie Avalon Beach Blanket movies. We are fascinated by them.

Shocking Fact #4: We wake up at 5:30 every morning without an alarm clock. Sad, isn’t it? However, it does allow us to be very productive.

Shocking Fact #5: We saw Driving Miss Daisy for the first time just three weeks ago.

Shocking Fact #6: We have never visited a tropical country.

Shocking Fact #7: We have sworn off store-bought cookies, because they lack flavour and imagination. Why are we, as a society, content with this blatant mediocrity?

Shocking Fact #8: We are given to rants about meaningless subjects.

We are supposed to nominate 15 bloggers for this award, but we’re not sure who has/has not been nominated. So we will forego this for now, until we finish our own customized award system.

Roscoe Arbuckle prepares to ask Mary Thurman to marry him.

In 1920, comedian Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle made a movie that was banned in the United States, and wasn’t shown to an American audience until 1981.

It wasn’t the subject matter of the movie that brought about the ban. It was Arbuckle’s unfortunate circumstance; he was arrested for murder shortly after filming wrapped. Because of the arrest, all of Arbuckle’s films were banned by the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA).

The case went to trial three times without a conviction. Arbuckle himself was spared, but his career was not. The MPPDA ban and unfavourable popular opinion meant he was never able to star in a film again.

(We’re not covering the details of the murder, and all that went with it, but you can read more about it here. It is juicy stuff.)

This last movie Arbuckle starred in was Leap Year, a farce about a well-meaning and wealthy young man who keeps giving women the impression he wants to marry them.

We can guess what you’re thinking: Arbuckle does not have the traditional leading-man looks or physique. But as you watch the film, you see he is funny and charming, and you can understand why so many women fall for him.

The one woman, though, who has stolen Arbuckle’s heart is Mary Thurman, a nurse who cared for Arbuckle’s ailing uncle and was fired by said uncle because he didn’t like her haircut.

Arbuckle truly is the star here, and he makes acting look effortless. He is surprisingly agile and appears to be very strong. In one scene, he is golfing – with a club that resembles a hockey stick – and, when he is finished, he shoves his giant clubs and his junior caddy in his golf bag, and carries them with one hand as he strides off the course.

Everything about Leap Year is cheeky. The title cards include playful commentary and very witty lines. There are, of course, lots of great sight gags. For example, several of Arbuckle’s would-be fiancés move into his large house, each unaware of the others’ presence; these poor women keep entering rooms just as another is exiting. This is a premise we have seen many times in movies, but it would still be fresh material in the early 1920s.

Leap Year is so much fun, you’ll forget that you’re watching a silent picture. It pokes fun at infatuation, misplaced loyalties and the way many of us behave in a relationship.

It’s a film that everyone can enjoy after an unnecessary 60-year absence.

Leap Year: starring Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, Mary Thurman. Directed by James Cruze. Written by Walter Woods (adaptation) and Sarah Y. Mason (story). Paramount Pictures, 1921, B&W, 60 mins.

Peter Lorre (left) toys with a desperate Mickey Rooney.

If you hate the thought of a young-ish Mickey Rooney playing a bad guy, please do not read any further.

We mean it. We’re not talking about a fellow who squirts water out of his boutonniere or puts whoopee cushions on people’s chairs. Nay, we’re talking kidnapping and murder, as portrayed in the gritty 1950 crime drama Quicksand.

You may remember Rooney as the über-talented child actor who could do anything – sing, dance, act, and play musical instruments. He became a superstar when he starred as the kind-hearted rascal Andy Hardy, in the Andy Hardy series. It was a character that cast a long shadow.

So, when Andy Hardy – er, Mickey Rooney – breaks into an arcade at night to steal a few thousand dollars, you realize you’re rooting for him to get away with it. Even when he attacks his boss and flees to Mexico, you know you won’t relax until he’s safely across the border.

Quicksand is one of those gritty black-and-white movies that makes you feel a bit grimy afterwards. There are not many glamourous scenes, and there are certainly no glamourous people. Almost all the characters (except for Rooney’s saintly but stupid ex-girlfriend) are as morally corrupt as Rooney.

Rooney plays a car mechanic whose boss (Art Smith) is a mean, cheap jerk. We are given a glimpse into both men’s characters early in the film: the boss gets angry about employees leaving the light on in the stockroom and, in a fit of pique, turns off the light above Rooney’s head as he works. As soon as the boss leaves, Rooney glares after him and snaps the light back on.

The film starts to pick up speed when Rooney, desperate for cash before payday, helps himself to a $20 bill from the company till. However, the bookkeeper arrives early to pick up the cash deposit, and Rooney scrambles to replace the money. One bad decision creates another and, before long, Rooney finds himself racing towards Mexico.

We won’t give you too many details because this film is best enjoyed when you’re unprepared. We will tell you, though, there are some very clever plot twists that will make you exclaim, in your out-loud voice, “No way!”

You couldn’t ask for a better cast in this film. Jeanne Cagney (sister of James) is the girl of Rooney’s dreams, a gal who would do anything to wear a mink coat. Rooney asks her, “Think you can handle me?” Cagney, with a smirk of contempt, says, “I can handle you easy.” We know how this will go.

Barbara Bates is Rooney’s dense ex-girlfriend, and we mean head-shakingly dense. But, as a girl who is loyal to a fault, Bates almost breaks your heart.

The most outstanding performance, in our opinion, is by Peter Lorre who plays a slimy arcade owner. Lorre is creepy and loathsome, and you can’t take your eyes off him. Rooney abhors Lorre and regards him as the worst type of human, even though Rooney proves himself just as capable of despicable behaviour.

The tension in Quicksand heightens with each new plot development. The movie starts to squeeze against you on all sides you until you feel as desperate as Rooney. How will Andy Hardy get out of this one!

If you’re keen to see a young-ish Mickey Rooney in a demanding dramatic role, we recommend Quicksand. Even with its flaws, it provides a hang-onto-your-hat ride.

Quicksand: starring Mickey Rooney, Jeanne Cagney, Barbara Bates. Directed by Irving Pichel. Written by Robert Smith. United Artists Corp., 1950, B&W, 80 mins.

Jack Benny (second from left), tries to get a rise out of Alexis Smith (left).

Yup, what they say is true: Timing is everything.

Once upon a time, comedian Jack Benny starred in a movie that did so poorly at the box office it became a running joke for the rest of his career. The reason it bombed? The timing of its release.

The infamous WWII comedy The Horn Blows at Midnight, about an angel sent to destroy the earth, opened in theatres a few days after the 1945 death of U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

Now, can you imagine: (A) a wartime comedy about the destruction of the earth; and (B) Jack Benny as the Tool of Destruction? Exactly.

However! The Horn Blows at Midnight is surprisingly good. The film is so fun, in fact, we watched it twice in a row.

Benny is a trumpet-playing angel who is unexpectedly summoned to the office of heaven’s Deputy Chief of Operations. This Deputy Chief angel instructs Benny to take a special horn down to earth and blow it at exactly midnight to signal mass destruction. (Heaven has decided to get rid of earth due to all the violence, something to which war-weary audiences could relate.)

One would think that such an important task would not be allocated to just anyone; however, heaven feels everybody deserves a chance. This is comforting theology, but bad project management.

Benny descends to earth and prepares to blow the Trumpet of Doom at the appointed location (on top of a New York hotel), but he runs afoul of two “fallen angels”. These are formerly good angels who were sent on prior missions to do heaven’s bidding, but decided instead to stay on earth where they could drink hard liquor, smoke cigars and throw lavish parties for beautiful women.

Benny, as an angel, is unfamiliar with earth’s customs, which makes for plenty of great lines. There is a little dark humour as well. In one scene, Benny tries to find out what time it is, because it’s important he blows the trumpet precisely at 12:00 a.m. He approaches the clerk at the front desk of the hotel:

Clerk: “Are you staying overnight, sir?”

Benny: “No, and neither are you.”

There is also a running gag about the elevator in the hotel being commandeered by angels descending from heaven, while frustrated hotel patrons grumble angrily about not being able to return to their rooms.

The supporting cast could not be better. Franklin Pangborn is the house detective who is dispatched to solve the mystery of the disappearing elevator. Reginald Gardiner is a glib, oily-haired thief who hangs about the hotel, targeting rich older women. Benny’s romantic interest is Alexis Smith, who is exceptional in what might otherwise be a forgettable role.

This movie is obviously written for Benny, and he isn’t asked to stretch his abilities as an actor. But Benny is good in his role as a hapless angel who strives to do the right thing while battling circumstances beyond his control. He delivers his lines like the seasoned pro he is. In one scene, Delores Moran is trying to seduce Benny so a hoodlum can steal the Trumpet Of Doom.

Moran: “Can’t you see what my eyes are saying to you?”

Benny: “Yes, and you should watch your language.”

There’s a reason Benny is considered one of the all-time great comedians. He was often the butt end of jokes on his own radio program, and his writers gleefully latched onto the box-office failure of The Horn Blows at Midnight. It’s to Benny’s great credit that he encouraged these gags instead of squelching them.

The Horn Blows at Midnight deserves recognition as an amusing film that pokes fun at life on earth. Its observations of human foibles is as timely today as it was in the 1940s.

The Horn Blows at Midnight: starring Jack Benny, Alexis Smith, Dolores Moran. Directed by Raoul Walsh. Written by Sam Hellman and James V. Kern. Warner Brothers, 1945, B&W, 80 mins.

L-R: Debbie Reynolds, Gene Kelly, Jean Hagen. Hagen, the ultimate pro, was able to keep the cake from spilling onto her sparkly dress.

We love good movie villains. We like ‘em smart, witty and well-dressed.

And who is better dressed than Jean Hagen as super-celebrity Lina Lamont in the epic 1952 musical Singin’ in the Rain?

Yep, we’re talking about you, Lina Lamont – you and your monkey-fur-trimmed coat* that you joyfully flaunt on screen.

*Note: We’re not accusing MGM of using real monkey fur, from real monkeys, in Lina Lamont’s wardrobe. Monkey fur did gain popularity with the wealthy in the early 1900s, and today you can purchase vintage coats made with this material. (Just do a search on etsy.com.) For our purposes, however, we’ve convinced ourselves the MGM Wardrobe Department would never harm monkeys in the making of this or any other coat:

No monkeys were harmed in the manufacture of this coat. La la la – we can’t hear you.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, we’ve also resolved to not refer to Lina Lamont a villain. Because she really isn’t. She’s just a regular, misunderstood celebrity – like the rest of us.

Singin’ in the Rain is based on actual Hollywood events. When Warner Brothers introduced a “talking picture” in 1927, movie studios were tossed into the spin cycle. Was sound a passing fad? Or would studios have to spend money on the bizarre idea of mixing visual with audio?

Actors, too, were faced with some ugly possibilities. Some celebrities, who were big box-office draws during the silent era, would be unable to make the transition to sound.

In Singin’ in the Rain, Lina Lamont’s studio is shooting their first film with sound. While the problems they encounter are laugh-out-loud funny, they’re also based on actual frustrations encountered by pioneer film crews. For example, a large microphone is sewn into Lina’s dress on the set but as she says her lines, she swings her head back and forth like someone watching a tennis match. As a result, the sound crew is able to record only every fifth word.

It is clear that our Lina is not going to make it in the era of sound. She has a squeaky voice and a thick, strange accent. The studio assigns her to a diction coach but it is of no use. Lina talks the way she talks.

“And I cain’t stand ‘im.”

But so what? Lina is a big star and she knows it. “People? I ain’t people,” she explains to a dim-witted studio exec. “I’m a shimmering, glowing star in the cinema fir-ma-ment.”

Such a glowing star needs top-notch wardrobe designer and for this film, it is the award-winning Walter Plunkett. Plunkett’s costumes are lavish and colourful satires of his own designs from the 1920s. The total cost of the Plunkett-designed wardrobe? A whopping $157,000.

Lina’s opulent costumes would steal every scene if Jean Hagen weren’t a pitch-perfect comedic actor. Her wardrobe incorporates ostrich feathers, sequins and crystal, and the aforementioned monkey fur trim.

Her costumes also reflect her moods. For example, when Lina first learns the awful news that the studio is implementing sound in its pictures, she wears rather modest attire, although Plunkett can’t resist a little sparkle:

Lina Lamont’s demure crystal-studded morning suit.

In another scene, Lina ambushes studio executives with a list of demands. She wears a soft lilac ensemble, complete with a wide-brimmed hat that could double as a flying saucer. She looks as sweet as a southern belle, with the same iron will.

Lina Lamont smiles as she threatens studio executives.

Poor Lina! Her efforts – and her shimmering career – are eventually hamstrung by conniving co-stars Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor. If the end of her career isn’t bad enough, she is also (get this!) publicly rebuffed and humiliated by Kelly, that snake.

We suppose there are reasons to watch Singin’ in the Rain, other than Walter Plunkett’s spectacular costume design, but don’t think that anyone other than Lina Lamont is the glowing, shimmering star of this movie’s fir-ma-ment.

Singin’ in the Rain: starring Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, Debbie Reynolds, Jean Hagen. Directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen. Written by Adolph Green and Betty Comden. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1952, Colour, 105 mins.

If you’re not following Aurora’s fabulous blog, click here to join the fun!

To accept this award, we have to list 11 random facts about ourselves and answer the 11 questions Aurora posed.

Claudette Colbert keeps her head down and her nose clean.

*WARNING: SPOILERS*

Dear Reader: We hope you’re not going to feel ripped off. Not only are we including spoilers in this post, we’re bringing you a sad movie – the kind of sad that needs to have the tissues handy. You may need to reach for the tissue about four times while watching today’s film.

The 1950 war drama, Three Came Home, is based on the true story of American author Agnes Keith and her family who lived in Borneo during the Japanese invasion of WWII. Keith and her family were captured in 1942, and were imprisoned in POW camps until 1945. (Some of the exteriors in this film were shot in the actual locations that Keith described in her memoirs.)

Claudette Colbert plays Agnes Keith, and you’re quickly convinced that she is Agnes Keith. Her Hollywood glamour is toned down and she is believable as a woman capable of great bravery when protecting her family. Patric Knowles plays her colonial-official husband, a stalwart man who is duty-bound and unflappable.

Three Came Home is unusual because it examines the POW experience from a woman’s point of view. The early scenes make it clear that an invasion is inevitable; not only do the characters accept the coming invasion, they begin to normalize it, hoping for the best. “The men waited because it was their duty,” explains Agnes Keith. “The women, because it was their choice.”

Until the rainy night when the Japanese arrive, and the men set out to greet them with umbrellas. The Japanese greet them with guns.

The film portrays men in the Japanese army as quick-tempered and on edge – as any soldier would be. Some of the soldiers are decent people, some are not; but the movie makes it clear they are soldiers doing a soldier’s grim task.

Colbert meets the invading Japanese colonel (Sessue Hayakawa) who tells her he admires her work. An uneasy acquaintance is formed between the two. Although Hayakawa is the colonel of the occupying army, he is a likable and charming man. But, in our film, a pleasant moment like this merely sets us up for a sucker punch. For example, after Colbert has her first conversation with the genial Hayakawa, she leaves his office and nearly trips over the body of a dead Borneo national.

Now let us talk about the “tissue moments” in this film.

TISSUE #1: When the foreign nationals are taken captive, the women and children are placed in a camp about 100 yards from the men’s camp. To make things worse, the men pass by the women’s camp as they go to work in the fields, but contact between the two groups is forbidden.

Colbert slips out of the camp one night to spend a precious few minutes with her husband, despite the fact she has a crippling fever. She stumbles to the rendezvous point in the dark, sick with fear and nearly delirious with fever, whispering her husband’s name, frantic that he’s not there to meet her. When he finally arrives, you almost weep for the sight of him.

TISSUE #2: The women are told they are being transferred to another camp, and they are allowed a few minutes to say goodbye to their husbands. Everyone is marched to a water-filled trench; men on one side, women on the other. It is an awkward farewell scene; characters have so little time to say so much – and they also have to watch they don’t fall into the trench. The tissue moment in this scene? One of the women discovers her husband was transferred to another camp the week before; no one knows where. The camera singles out and isolates this woman, who is alone in her confusion and hurt, while we listen to the other women and their tearful goodbyes.

TISSUE #3 (and possibly #4): Hayakawa visits Colbert’s camp and, during their conversation, he tells her about losing his wife and his three children in the explosion at Hiroshima. Hayakawa is mesmerizing in this scene as man suffering overwhelming loss. As he prepares to leave the camp, he impulsively invites three of the POW children to come to his house for a little party. (Gentle Reader, if you have not used your tissue up until this point, you’ll be using it now.) The children are served a tray of fresh fruit and they marvel at what they’re tasting. But the camera follows Hayakawa as he shuffles to a corner and slumps down heavily into a chair. The children babble about the food but he sees and hears nothing; grief has rolled over his life as though it were smothering a fire.

FINAL TISSUE SCENE: The last tissue is for the final scene of the movie which we’re not going to divulge. There’s no point in telling you the entire movie, is there?

Three Came Home is a thought-provoking film with a sobering message. You have to be in the mood for it, but it is well worth the price of a box of tissues.

Three Came Home: starring Claudette Colbert, Patric Knowles, Florence Desmond. Directed by Jean Negulesco. Written by Nunnally Johnson. Twentieth Century-Fox Film Corp., 1950, B&W, 105 mins.