The movie version of Robert Sherwood's play, The Petrified Forest, is an oddity. An outstanding, maybe even great film derived from a basically second rate work. Archie Mayo directs splendidly this story of a poet-drifter who (literally) walks into an eatery in the Arizona desert, where he runs into a desperate, Dillingeresque bad guy who holds him hostage, and in the course of his captivity falls in love with a very naive young woman. Much of the dialogue is dated (though clever) and is written in the faux-Lost Generation style popular in Broadway plays of the twenties and thirties, which is to say there are hints of Fitzgerald and Hemingway in the attitudes expressed, but little of their artistry and originality. As the drifter, sensitive, pipe-smoking Leslie Howard has never been better or better cast; one almost suspects that the role was written for him. Humphrey Bogart, in his first good movie role, is appropriately menacing; he looks remarkably like John Dillinger, and shows even at this stage of his career much of the charm and charisma that later propelled him to superstardom. Watch him closely: he more than holds his own with Howard. Bette Davis is somewhat silly as the love interest; this was not a good part for her. There are no demons for her to unleash in this shy school-girl, and she seems at a loss as to how to play her. The supporting cast is superb, down to the smallest bit player. Mayo and Company worked wonders with the desert set, with its cacti, tumbleweeds and air of rustling menace. We know it's not a real desert, but it doesn't matter; the state of mind is all. This is how the real desert would feel in the mind of such a man as Howard plays, and this is all that matters. The shack-like eatery, with its blinking barbeque sign, is a great creation; with its creaking floorboards and dry as sand tables and chairs, one can almost smell the chili. Also, the transition from day to night is exceedingly well done and quite subtle; it just happens. You know it's dark outside without actually having to see the darkness just beyond the door. The feeling of stars and huge sky above is conveyed by dialogue only and is yet palpable nonetheless; there in spirit if not fact. Inside, the claustrophobia is well-managed; even with several camera shifts there is a strong sense of confinemnt in the film. Mayo did a better job here, with this threadbare, wildly ambitious play, than Wyler ever did with much better material, and I'm not sure why. Mayo's career drifted downward in the late thirties and forties, and of his later work the less said the better. But in 1936 he proved that with great actors, outstanding cameramen and art directors, small miracles could be wrought right on the Warner Brothers back lot, and for a while at least the desert bloomed.