IN its animated form, Major Alexander de Seversky’s argument, called “Victory Through Air Power,” is the least imaginative cartoon Disney has made, as well as the most naïve and brutal view of the war anyone has taken. The film’s procedure is to show a sketchy, half-whimsical airplane history, emphasizing the advance we have made in two world wars in the science of demolition by airplane, after which de Seversky comes on in person (businesslike, with a good movie manner, in a streamlined office that would give any good architect nightmares) to present an illustrated lecture of his idea. The final impression is of a conglomeration of animated cartoon styles, mostly bad, which take so delighted an interest in the destructive possibilities of the airplane that they seem like the dreams of Buck Rogers’ creator.
There is a disparity between the cartoon’s aim, which is to sell to anyone yet unsold the idea of a great big air force, and the real effects of the salesmanship. Though the film raises certain critical objections to de Seversky’s plan—as, why is it too costly to bomb Japan from the Pacific Islands, China, Russia, aircraft-carriers? (and answers them before most screen audiences will digest the answers)—it obviously doesn’t raise enough such questions to give the Major a good run for his money. Audiences can wonder how long it will take to build so many Armadas of ocean-jumping Leviathans, what is to stop the Axis from building them or from inventing just as elaborate anti-aircraft devices, whether it is possible to demoralize a large city completely by air power, whether long-range bombers can defeat short-range fighters—and they will go on wondering for all the film cares. Because the film has the appearance of an educational project, it is obligated to care. In not doing so the pleasant feeling of learning something that the picture gives you is displaced by the unpleasant one of feeling propagandized. You find it is a hurdle race with only one man running, and hardly any hurdles on the track. Because all the forces operating in the war, enemy planes and operations, for instance, remain in the movie frozen at their present state, the Major’s phantom airforce of the future shows to marvelous advantage—which is like someone in 1923 saying that the V8 of 1943 will beat the Model T.
Both Disney and de Seversky were carried away with the damage the airplane (of the future) could wreak. When de Seversky’s dream comes true at the end of this movie, his airforce of super-bombers bristling with cannon, carrying monster loads of local-earthquake bombs, and armor-piercing rocket bombs with auxiliary charges, rend the screen with super-destruction. It is a carnival of destruction, relieved of all such imponderables as human beings, ideals and causes and effects. On de Seversky’s part the overindulgence in knocking everything to pieces is merely that of a man who has an idea and wants to show it persuasively, and it is an idea he thinks will win the war. On Disney’s part it arose when he undertook to illustrate the idea realistically: to equal the intensity of real life destruction his cartoonists exaggerated their explosions to a degree more appalling than any news reel. There is no reason anyone should leave this film feeling his life in any way safe from airplanes. The picture drives home the fact that, just as the automobile replaced the horse, the airplane will replace the human being.
It is true that the animated cartoon is the only medium that could pictorialize “Victory Through Air Power’s” argument, which is largely still argued on the drafting board, but it is anything but malleable subject matter for Disney’s art. His contribution to de Seversky’s argument doesn’t make a good movie nor does it come close enough to grappling with any of its ideas to be called serious.
There is an interesting job around now called “The Fallen Sparrow,” which has some good acting and is not disconcerted by its jimcrack plot. The plot’s motivations and conflicts are unbelievable, and the characters are unclassified bodies on which have been hung such exotic matter as tics, twisted legs or names like “Pagan” and “sadist,” but the director, Richard Wallace, has taken that for granted and by doing a good job with close-ups and acting has knit the thing tightly and excitingly together. It shows, in its love affair and in the playing of its star, John Garfield, plenty of resemblance to “The Maltese Falcon.” It lacks, however, the striking detail and vivid contrast in people that the “Falcon” had, and Garfield proves that Bogart’s grimace in which the lips are pulled back from the teeth doesn’t mellow with use. The movie has vitality and there is a fine supporting contribution by John Miljan as a very average dour detective. In the movies, one element, in this case acting, can make a picture worth your time, which may only mean that the movies are in such a state they are easily redeemed.
September 6, 1943