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In the remarkable opening scene, a minister's daughter (Barbara Stanwyck) steps up to the pulpit to deliver her father's last, unfinished sermon and her voice grows from stiff whimper to annihilating roar, a firestorm unleashed upon the gossipy, hypocritical congregation. Even Stanwyck's fervent realness can become a commodity, however, the wily huckster (Sam Hardy) knows that religion "is no good if you just give it away." Frank Capra gazes at evangelism and sees showbiz razzle-dazzle, the tent revival is now a raucous philharmonic hall with "faith" a brand name in electrified neon letters. (In this circus, contortionists have a special place: A paid vagrant bends himself into a pretzel and snaps back into form come salvation time, an absorbing Tod Browning note.) Clad in form-hugging whites, the prophetess proselytizes from inside a den of lions, a choice line about "sinners and quitters" gets the blind flyboy (David Manners) on the edge of the abyss to step back. The bashful romance reminds her of the sting of fraud, "hiccups and hallelujahs don't mix." The preacher's position between the ballyhoo of spectacle and the eager audience is also the filmmaker's, the fakery that leads to truth is a path understood by Capra. On display already is a mastery of early sound—characters howl before the crowd and whisper to each other, the aviator's ventriloquist dummy goes touchingly silent once he has to declare his love. A literally flaming confessional caps the search for illumination, the freed heroine is finally seen happily rattling a tambourine with the Salvation Army. ("The poor sap," sighs the impresario from the sidelines.) The progression is toward Brooks' Elmer Gantry and Duvall's The Apostle. With Beryl Mercer, Russell Hopton, and Charles Middleton. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |