Doubtless the most original trait of American cinema is the sly metamorphosis of familiar novels from their printed pages to the screen. Many who would be frightened away by its true-story title will be relieved to know that "I Married a Doctor" is a neat scenarioizing of Sinclair Lewis's "Main Street." Stylized, the plot is of a young woman rich in parts who comes to be the wife of Dr. Kennicott, and must breast all the bigotry of Williamsburg, a mid-western town. She is unfortunate in her open treatment of the men, secures the whole hearted ill will of their wives, and is ridiculed when she attempts landscape architecture a la Provence. She befriends a fakir of an artist, who misconstrues her attentions as love, but so embroils matters for herself that she leaves town even after the young Eric has been killed on a drunk. To satisfy Adelaide Tarr Gimmitch and other American ladies, she returns to her husband when she has learned that "Main Streets exist everywhere."

The atmosphere is handled with rare skill; the minor characters have an individuality all their own. As Carol, Josephine Hutchinson is delightful, save for a certain thrilled ecstasy introduced in irrelevant scenes. The doctor is done by Pat O'Brien, with a stupid tenderness that is positively intelligent, but Ross Alexander as Eric is quite uncalled-for; since his last role he has managed to put still another hot potato in his mouth.

The second feature, "Man Hunt," with William Gargan and Marguerite Churchill, is amusing enough, plays new variations on the theme of the small-town reporter and the not-too-inhuman gangster. The bill is more than satisfactory for that reading period pressure on the head. Sharp eyes may notice that the bank set in the first film serves as the sherifi's office in the second.