Peacock Alley

Imagine you're a moviegoer in 1930. Imagine you're also a Mae Murray fan. Never the most lauded actress, critics sneer at her affected posing, her dance numbers, her elaborate (and sometimes scanty) outfits, the sheer campiness of her films. However, you adore her in films like THE MERRY WIDOW, grand productions where she danced a steamy waltz with heartthrob John Gilbert and lounged about in elaborate gowns. Perhaps you can remember back to her early film career, when she was making light Cinderella-style comedies like THE DELICIOUS LITTLE DEVIL with Rudy Valentino.

Now imagine Murray-- a star you associate with glamor and dance-- trapped in a static, very talk-heavy film in which everyone involved is more concerned with where to position their mouths so the microphone will catch each over-enunciated, badly written bit of dialogue. Murray-- in her forties-- is playing an ingenue half her age, and barely conjuring any chemistry with the two wet blankets we're supposed to believe are madly in love with her. Bored and remembering the fluid camera of those pre-sound days, you appreciate fleeting elements of Murray's performance that recall her dance background-- the way she gracefully spins into a lover's arms, the way she walks across a room like she owns the place. But none of this can save PEACOCK ALLEY and you struggle not to nod off.