The New Pictures, Aug. 9, 1948

Beyond Glory (Paramount) is a canonization of West Point and Model Cadet Alan Ladd. At the start Ladd is accused by an ex-plebe (Conrad Janis) of hazing beyond the line of duty, and of lying to bring about the plebe's expulsion. As the story unravels in flashbacks, things look pretty black for the hero. Before he came to West Point he fought in World War II, and apparently his best friend died in battle because Ladd was a c-w-rd. And now Ladd is engaged to the poor fellow's widow (Donna Reed). But by the time the picture ends it is clear that Ladd never funked for an instant, handed out no more bullying at West Point than he took, never tells lies, and is in every way worthy of the Academy and of Miss Reed.

The story might have serialized nicely in the old American Boy. It is filmed (much of it at West Point) with romantic feeling for place and protocol, and there are appropriate performances by Ladd as the animated ramrod and by Miss Reed, the screen's All American Nice Girl. Most of the military people, however, are such Galahads, and most of the male civilians are such slobs, that ordinary men will probably slink out of the theater with their hats over their faces.

The Street with No Name (20th Century-Fox) is still another of Fox's well-made semi-documentaries (Call Northside 777, Boomerang!, etc.). This time the story is based on FBI files. The subject: postwar gangsterism.

The juvenile delinquents of yesterday have become the gangsters of today, and they are much smarter and more dangerous, we are told, than the old gangs used to be. A disguised FBI agent (Mark Stevens) hangs around the hard streets of a large provincial city and gradually works his way into such a gang. His object: to identify those responsible for a chain of thefts and killings.

The gang's leader is a pale, frail, lethal youth (well played by Richard Widmark) who is very proud of his "scientific" methods. (Sample: he schemes to get the G-man knocked off, in the course of an apparent burglary, by the local police.) His business associates are so young and fearsome that among them Mr. Stevens, no pantywaist, seems as mild and conspicuous as a country uncle. He makes himself still more conspicuous by the recklessly amateurish ways he keeps in touch with fellow agents; they signal each other, for instance, with lights at fleabag windows. However, he stirs up a lot of dirt (a high police official is involved), gets the necessary evidence, and funnels the picture into a climax in a dark factory, where a satisfying portion of hell breaks loose.

Street is a workmanlike, exciting show, but basically it does not seem different enough from a lot of crime fiction to be worth all the documentary bother. Semi-documentaries are verging, in fact, toward formula. If they are to realize their fine potentialities—or even stay as good as they started, they need new ideas and new problems. Self-repetition is not immediately fatal; but it brings death to the door, and leaves the door on the latch.