Mannequin

There are elements in this story of idealistic and impoverished Jessie, a typical scrappy 30s Joan Crawford role, that even Borzage’s unique touch can’t make convincing — that touch which one could call headily romantic and abidingly real at all times, somehow both movingly sentimental and refreshingly unsentimental. There are moments of it, wonderful moments of course. At the beginning of the story, Jessie is working at a factory and living with a family that sponges off her meager wages. She dreads the return to Hester St at the end of the day, and cringes at the sound of infant cries and angry fights from neighboring apartments. In such moments, left to Borzage and his cast, the film is immensely effective: the wearied and laborious way Crawford climbs the stairs to her door, the imposing and claustrophobic way the stairways and halls are filmed: here the film is direct, mindful of the reality of people in such a situation, and tremendously emotionally resonant. But there is little Borzage can do to recover the absurdity of the narrative, which gives him little room to turn the maudlin to the fantastically tender as in his best films. Those moments — combined with the screen presence of Crawford and Spencer Tracy — make up for much; ultimately what one is left with is compelling nonsense. Engaging to watch, but unsatisfying immediately the closing credits roll.