The Crimson Playgoer

Insatiable admirers of Marlene Dietrich will swarm to this, her latest starring vehicle, will stay to be bored, and will understand at last why Paramount sought to wrest some manner of control over her acting and stories from the stubborn von Sternberg. For whatever fault, and there is much, which can be found in this cinema may be placed on the doorstep of the director alone. A capable group of actors struggles manfully through an unconvincing, poorly motivated, carelessly photographed production. But the effort is vain: Dietrich remains the beautiful woman who has yet to prove her histrionic talent; Herbert Marshall, able English stage veteran, grinds out an unsympathetic thankless supporting role; Dickie Moore unfortunately remains Dickie Moore; and only to Cary Grant may credit be given for breaking the Teutonic spell of wooden, unimaginative direction.

For an hour and a half, mother love is engaged in a deadly combat with an illicit attraction for a third corner,--all within the predominantly maternal bosom of la Dietrich. The theme is not new, but, with such a supporting cast, might have become convincing. After the first half hour, however, the audience loses interest in the plot. There is not too much disappointment; after all it has played money to see Dietrich, and there she is, beautiful as ever, even without benefit of direction. Such an attitude may swell box office receipts, but it does not make for good art. Clearcut motivation is a prime essential to good drama; in this respect "Blonde Venus" is found sadly wanting, and therein lies its fundamental weakness.