Only Hollywood could mix Walt Whitman and Sigmund Freud and come up with a first-class weepie like Now, Voyager. Bette Davis is at her best as a woman who starts out wretchedly oppressed and homely, and ends up happily oppressed and handsome. Her domineering mother (Gladys Cooper) having fashioned her into the ideal spinster-slave, Davis's Charlotte Vale of the sensible shoes suffers a nervous breakdown, whence psychiatrist Claude Rains prescribes a therapeutic cruise. Charlotte sails forth, best shoe forward, broad-brimmed white hat, smart shoulders, to fall in love with married Paul Heinreid and trade her family's neuroses for his. Now, Voyager is the quintessential "transformation" film in which clothes make the woman. But Orry-Kelly had been designing for Bette Davis at Warners since Fashions of 1934 (see July 24), and he's in on Charlotte Vale/Veil's secret: not healed, but playing the game. The turning point comes when her clothes (like her mother) stop wearing her. (JB)