Cinema: Two with Tracy

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Spencer Tracy is a man of many moods, and he is rich and famous enough to indulge them—even while the cameras are rolling. In one of two new pictures he worked hard and gave a performance that may well win him an Academy Award. In the other he sulked at the director and hardly bothered to act at all.

The Last Hurrah (John Ford; Columbia) is based on Edwin O'Connor's 1956 bestseller about the bad old days when political machines were run on blarney, graft, openhanded charity and shamrock oil, and about the last of the great Irish-American city bosses in the grand, 19th century manner—a man, the author protests, who is not to be confused with ex-Mayor James Michael Curley of Boston.

In the film, at any rate, there is little danger of confusion. Boston's Curley was a charming, slush-funding, machine-tooled rascal who, on two occasions, found himself awearing o' the stripes when he was caught in the act of fraud. Tracy's Skeffington is just about the dearest old party since Santa Claus: a combination of Robin Hood and Mother Machree. Sure and if he steals, 'tis only from the rich, and doesn't the darlin' man turn right around and give it all to the poor?

Actor Tracy, who bears a certain physical resemblance to Mayor Curley in his political prime, plays the part with more Celtic charm than a carload of leprechauns. The Last Hurrah could easily become one of the biggest sentimental successes since Going My Way left the public quivering like one vast harp.

Like the book, the film tells the story of Skeffington's last campaign. His henchmen go out and get their Irish up, and the whole South Side is voting mad on election day. But this time the banks (Basil Rathbone) and the church (Donald Crisp) and the big newspaper (John Carradine) combine against the old man. Their candidate is just a "6ft. hunk of talking putty," but what with a pretty wife, four kids and a rented dog, he looks great on television; and so he carries the day. All alone, the old man walks through the night to his empty home. All alone, he has a heart attack.

And so begins a death scene that for temporal duration (18 minutes) and sentimental excruciation has scarcely been equaled since Sonny Boy kicked the bucket in The Singing Fool (1928). It is a masterpiece that should wring tears from an Ulsterman. But as the henchmen file piteously past the deathbed to murmur their last, tearful goodbyes, the serious sort first and the dopey guy last, many moviegoers may wonder where they have seen the heart-wrenching but somehow faintly silly scene before. A few may remember. It occurs, with only minor variations, in Walt Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.