"Don't pronounce it, see it," say the ads; don't just see it, go two or three times and take a good long look, for "Ninotchka" is one of the funniest comedies, one of the most original and ingratiating love stories, and one of the most intelligent pieces of social criticism ever to come out of Hollywood. Garbo laughs, Melvyn Douglas laughs, and the audience guffaws at the happy, hysterical carryings-on of a female Soviet envoy in Paris, in the days when a Frenchman pulled down the shades, but not because of an air raid. Ernst Lubitsch's direction has created several unforgettable scenes; the first kiss of the Parisian man-about-town and the desexed Russian agent. Ninotchka, with her first three glasses of champagne fizzing warmly underneath her low-cut evening gown, crying "Comrades!" to the "dear French people" in a swanky Paris night club: and a starry-eyed Bolshevik girl back in Moscow burying her face in a satin slip, and begging it for her honeymoon. Again, clever direction has saved the three Russian wheelhorses, Buljanoff, Iranoff, and Kopalski, from becoming a cheap imitation of the Three Stooges, and has made them uproarious symbols of a comfort-loving Russian bourgeoisie squirming under cold Soviet efficiency, throwing their hotel room carpet out of the window and complaining to the management because it doesn't fly. But it's Greta Garbo's show all the way through, and she deserves it. Her lightning change from a surly Marxist to a glamorous Parisienne ought to convince the fans at last that she is no mystery woman, but the original it, oomph, and glamor girl all rolled into one, and above all a superbly talented actress.