"Torrid Zone" isn't as bad a picture as one would expect it to be. This still leaves it stranded somewhere in the Guatemalan jungles, but even a white man can put up with an hour or so down there. Ann Sheridan, of course, cooperates with the mosquitoes and the yellow fever to make the place unpleasant. There were some rather crude members of the audience at the Metropolitan who whistled at certain sequences built upon her specialized sort of appeal, but it is hard to see why. While it is true that she has learned from Busby Berkeley, or perhaps his best friend, to sashay her hips around while walking down the street, the fact remains that she sags in the wrong places, and that she never looks more than sultry, which is only remotely related to heat. This isn't to say that we don't all think Annie is a great girl, and that we don't love her ever so much, but it would be pretty boring to sit through something depending entirely upon her thespian and terpsichorean abilities.

Fortunately, "Torrid Zone" doesn't have to depend upon her. Jimmie Cagney is in there demonstrating that he is probably the best all around swash-buckler in the flickers--that in spite of his five foot four or so. And there is also an amazingly good script. The dialogue moves swiftly, with every now and then a remark which actually bears repeating the next time you wish to appear as a hot fox. Most of the cracks attest to the increasing senility of the Hays Office: some of them are downright shocking.