So huffs Bette Davis, in a high affected voice, as the shallow Mrs. of Claude Rains' stately Jewish banker, as she realizes--too late!--that she has a responsibility to the good man who genuinely loves her. Based on a story by "Elizabeth," whoever that was, this is a luxe Warners melodrama designed to show off Bette. She's good, but doesn't show a great deal of range here, hampered by a screenplay that limits her to vain and stupid. It's also not entirely credible that her face would be the one that enraptures all of New York from approximately 1914 to 1935, and the picture's severely hampered by a musical score--by Franz Waxman, whom I usually like--that underlines everything and removes whatever subtlety there might have been. The glory of the film is Rains, who artfully underplays, and some fun supporting actors turn up--John Alexander, George Colouris, even Dolores Gray in one plot-unrelated bit. The Warners trappings are lush, and Vincent Sherman's direction is a little slow, but that's not a bad choice for this soapy material.
Review of Mr. Skeffington
