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Director William Wyler was remarking recently that the final responsibility for a picture's quality rests solely and completely upon the shoulders of the man who directs it. His, said he, is the liability if an actor's performance is at fault; he is the one to censure—or to thank—for the finished effect, since it is the director, after all, who makes the picture and okays it.

Mr. Wyler spoke at a most propitious moment. For seldom has this theory been more clearly and more flatteringly supported than it is by his own screen version of Somerset Maugham's play, "The Letter," which was delivered yesterday at the Strand. Indubitably Mr. Wyler must be grateful to Bette Davis, James Stephenson, Herbert Marshall and an excellent cast for doing as he told them; obviously Mr. Maugham supplied him with a potent play, out of which Howard Koch fashioned a compact script. But the ultimate credit for as taut and insinuating a melodrama as has come along this year—a film which extenuates tension like a grim inquisitor's rack—must be given to Mr. Wyler. His hand is patent throughout.

For the story told in "The Letter" is not an especially bold or novel one. Theatregoers who saw Katharine Cornell perform it a dozen years ago on the stage or Jeanne Eagels play it in 1929 on the screen will agree. It is the morbid tale of the wife of an English rubber planter in the Malay States who kills a man, presumably in defense of what is known as her honor. As the tedious inquest proceeds, however, it becomes known to her lawyer that a letter is in existence—a letter written by the woman to the dead man on the day of the deed—which fatally incriminates her. And thus the desperate and degrading task of the woman and her lawyer is to get this letter away from the native girl who owns it, the widow of the murdered man, and thereby to prevent complications. The manner in which this is done and what happens after fill out the substance of the story.

It is an evil tale, plotted with an eye to its torturing effects. And Mr. Wyler has directed the film along those lines. With infinite care, he has created the dark, humid atmosphere of the rubber country. At a slow, inexorable pace, he has accumulated the details. His camera generally speaks more eloquently than any one in the picture—when, for instance, it finds a dead body lying in a rubber-curing shed or picks up the lacquered face of the native woman or focuses significantly upon the tinkling decorations in a Chinese room. The tensile strength of Mr. Wyler's suspense is incredible.

And his actors, too, have been directed for the distillation of somber moods. Miss Davis is a strangely cool and calculating killer who conducts herself with reserve and yet implies a deep confusion of emotions. James Stephenson is superb as the honest lawyer who jeopardizes his reputation to save a friend—a shrewd, dignified, reflective citizen who assumes a sordid business with distaste. He is the strongest character in the film, the one person who really matters. And Sen Yung plays a smart Oriental clerk with illuminating candor, Herbert Marshall is properly negative as the unsuspecting husband and Gale Sondergaard cryptically conveys through appearance and attitudes only the enigmatic menace of the native woman.

Only the end of "The Letter" is weak—and that is because of the postscript which the Hays office has compelled. The play ended with the freed wife returning to her poor husband, who knows that she doesn't love him, that she has killed the man she loves. But they must go on living together. That was the trenchant irony of the whole story, the sardonic victory of the Orient over the Occident. The Hays office demand for "compensating moral values" makes Miss Davis pay for her criminal deed with her own violent death. It is a feeble conclusion.

But, never mind—the picture as a whole is insured against even that. It is fine melodrama, in short. Postman Wyler has rung the bell—several times.


THE LETTER; screen play by Howard Koch; based on the play by W. Somerset Maugham; produced and directed by William Wyler for Warner Brothers. At the Strand.
Leslie Crosbie . . . . . Bette Davis
Robert Crosbie . . . . . Herbert Marshall
Howard Joyce . . . . . James Stephenson
Dorothy Joyce . . . . . Frieda Inescort
Mrs. Hammond . . . . . Gale Sondergaard
John Withers . . . . . Bruce Lester
Adele Ainsworth . . . . . Elizabeth Earl
Prescott . . . . . Cecil Kellaway
Ong Chi Seng . . . . . Sen Yung
Mrs. Cooper . . . . . Doris Lloyd
Chung Hi . . . . . Willie Funs
Head Boy . . . . . Tetsu Komai

BOSLEY CROWTHER New York Times 23 November 1940

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He is a man I respect the most in my tailoring fraternity and he reminds me of my Dad who was respectfully called Shakir Master .

Perhaps I see my dad in him , but he is a sober man cultured and humble unlike my dad who was colorful robust and a hardcore romantic , my dad was good looking in a rakish way.

Dhirubhai is a simple man , in the trade since 1963 his clientele is intact and keeps growing from one generation to the next though sadly Dhirubhai is the last of his generation , as his children all well settled are million light years away from tailoring.

His two daughters are well settled in United States of America, they call him every day , his daughter Geeta lives with him to serve him , though she is married and well settled too in Mumbai Ghatkopar.

His one son Ravi moved to Ahmedabad and the other son my dear friend is a doctor , the only Hindu doctor with the largest Muslim patents in all of Bandra West. Dr RD Parmar of Bandra Jain Mandir Road.

Dhirubhai wears a long shirt and a pajama , sartorial simplicity in this designing world of fashion and style..but he is good at his work, and he is honest polite and soft spoken..

When I am depressed sad I sit with Dhirubhai listen to his tales , he knows all the top lawyers judges that have made their wardrobe with him, and he greets them when they enter his shop close to my workspace.

That I am into tailoring too does not matter , he gets what he is deemed to get ..Dhirubhai does everything himself cut stitch press he is always involved with the garment .. giving it a touch of hope..

So I touch his feet consider him a Guru of my trade and he listens to my stories my failures my love life too.. he will never broach me , he just listens he subscribes to Midday that I borrow and read every day.

Once upon a time Dhirubhai and his family his father was a Master too stayed at Marwadi Chawl Bandra.

Bandra has changed but Dhirubhai remains unchanged he is what he was when he was young, he will never retire and I know Dhirubhai has greater pain in his heart than me , he has never told me, he conceals it well but as a mind reader I know it all..and perhaps he too is a mind reader as he knows my pain too ..my predilection my doom..

Once during Idd , that is the time when Dhirubhai is packed with work, all the Muslims from our area make their Idd clothes with Dhirubhai.. and I never envy him , a guy wanted to have a pathani urgently made he came to me two days before Ramzan Idd.. I refused him , he said but Sir you makes clothes for everyone in my area aren't you Advocate Tailors.. I directed him to Dhirubhai.. so such is my relationship with Dhirubhai, most of his clients are my best friends but I refuse to make their clothes.

And they understand my style my content my form is different from Dhirubhai but we are one as he is a traditionalist like me..and honestly he is my inspiration , he uses the same English scissors my dad used..and through Dhirubhai I try to discover my dead departed father one of his kind Shakir Master..who was a connoisseur of beauty and a heart throb..

My younger brother Shakil Shakir was luckier he learnt tailoring under my Dad , and though I hated tailoring cutting , I learnt cutting under Miss Spencer at Windmere Road close to Taj Mahal Hotel..and accidentally got drawn to couture ..

I have seen great masters of the olden era Bul Bul Master of Shrimans and so many others but my dad was unique and made clothes of all the dons of the 60 s Haji Mastan , Yusuf Patel, Basu Bhai Khaliq Bhai ,Karim Lala Maxy Rashid Arba best friend of Basu Bhai and they came to our house at Jony Castle Wodehouse Road.. it was a era of white clothes and Rampuri chaku.. no guns no bombs just a word of the don could make you piddle in your pants..

And they gave us kids money generously they were our childhood heroes ..

So sitting at Dhirubhai s shop I let my mind my imagination soar..