... is, of course, streets ahead of four-quarter Godard but this does disappoint more than it pleases. If she's not careful Joan Fontaine is likely to wind up on the wrong end of a Trivial Pursuit question: Which non-singing, non-dancing actress still managed to co-star with a leading singer and THE dancer of the twentieth century. There's absolutely no chemistry whatsoever between Fontaine and Crosby which is understandable considering Crosby was in love with himself. Although they were at the same studio, Paramount, Crosby was serenely unaware that Wilder was in the middle of a hitting streak and had just turned out four smashes - The Major And The Minor, Five Graves To Cairo, Double Indemnity and The Lost Weekend - in a row and collected Best Screenplay, Best Director, Best Picture Oscars for the last one, because he showed up with his own team of writers headed by Barney Dean (yeah, you heard; Barney Dean to re-write Billy Wilder)and would hand new pages to Wilder each day saying 'here's what we'll be shooting today' or 'I'll be playing golf, let me know'. Alas, what he lacked in manners/respect Crosby made up for in clout, his pictures were just as big hits as Wilder's and he'd had more of them. Apart from this what started out as a valentine to fin-de-siecle Vienna metamorphosed into a tribute to Yankee know-how/get-up-and-go with Crosby's David taking on the Viennese Goliath in the shape of Emeror Franz-Joseph (Richard Haydn). No Wilder film could ever be all bad and his barbed reference to genocide remains with Crosby saving a mongrel litter from Sig Ruman's 'doctor' and confronting Franz-Joseph with a speech about the mongrels not being 'pure' enough to be allowed to live. Franz-Joseph is played as something just this side of a buffoon and there's absolutely no mention of the assassination of his wife, Sissi (a memorable role for Romy Schneider) or the double suicide of his son and the son's mistress at Mayerling. The prime interest will be to Wilder completists and/or what-might-have-beeners.