Fast, efficient, inaccurate adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson's novel of a young boy (Bartholemew) swept up in the Scottish rebellion against the King's tax collectors.
When you get one of these 1930s black-and-white, no-nonsense stories of famous novels or famous men from a studio like 20th-Century Fox, you get a respectable and not-very-challenging studio product. These are all professional and commercial products. The guys behind and in front of the camera knew their business. The sets are evocatively dressed. Rainy Scotland, full of bens and lochs, is turned into the rolling tawny hills of sunny California, full of live oak and orange blossoms. Plenty of atmosphere and entertainment.
Freddy Bartholemew isn't bad, considering he's only about eleven years old. Ordinarily, a little kid in a movie like this has to break down and weep somewhere along the line -- his champion dies or his father is killed by the enemy -- and during these scenes one wants to stomp them like insects. Here, though, Bartholemew is as tart as a pippin apple. He "speaks truth to authority." He's sufferable.
The supporting cast is good, too, with a few exceptions. Warner Baxter isn't the notorious Scottish rebel. He's a guy who's at his wits end trying to produce a Broadway play. And Arlene Whelan isn't a young Scottish lass with crude demeanor. She's a graduate of an Orange-County hair-dressing salon who became one of Darryl F. Zanuck's mistresses and got the part.
Best scene: Bartholomew meets his uncle, the phony and stingy Laird of the Manor, Miles Mander, who is straight out of Dickens. (His name is Ebeneezer Balfour.) He lives alone in a cold, dark castle, too cheap to feed the fire or lend his nephew a candle to find his way to his bedroom. On first meeting Bartholomew, he spoons about half a cup of oatmeal into the kid's bowl and says, "There you go, eat hearty." That Calvinism is like a disease.
When you get one of these 1930s black-and-white, no-nonsense stories of famous novels or famous men from a studio like 20th-Century Fox, you get a respectable and not-very-challenging studio product. These are all professional and commercial products. The guys behind and in front of the camera knew their business. The sets are evocatively dressed. Rainy Scotland, full of bens and lochs, is turned into the rolling tawny hills of sunny California, full of live oak and orange blossoms. Plenty of atmosphere and entertainment.
Freddy Bartholemew isn't bad, considering he's only about eleven years old. Ordinarily, a little kid in a movie like this has to break down and weep somewhere along the line -- his champion dies or his father is killed by the enemy -- and during these scenes one wants to stomp them like insects. Here, though, Bartholemew is as tart as a pippin apple. He "speaks truth to authority." He's sufferable.
The supporting cast is good, too, with a few exceptions. Warner Baxter isn't the notorious Scottish rebel. He's a guy who's at his wits end trying to produce a Broadway play. And Arlene Whelan isn't a young Scottish lass with crude demeanor. She's a graduate of an Orange-County hair-dressing salon who became one of Darryl F. Zanuck's mistresses and got the part.
Best scene: Bartholomew meets his uncle, the phony and stingy Laird of the Manor, Miles Mander, who is straight out of Dickens. (His name is Ebeneezer Balfour.) He lives alone in a cold, dark castle, too cheap to feed the fire or lend his nephew a candle to find his way to his bedroom. On first meeting Bartholomew, he spoons about half a cup of oatmeal into the kid's bowl and says, "There you go, eat hearty." That Calvinism is like a disease.