The biggest and best news in the American movie industry, appropriately at hand by this Valentine's Day, was that it looked as though Walt Disney had another hit on his hands. Hollywood, where financial candor is often supposed to be as rare as charity, guessed that Walt could use a hit. (Was the Bank of America, his longtime creditor, after all these years still into him for $600,000?) But there could scarcely be much guessing on the part of the reviewers as to the merit of Disney's sixteenth full-length film, "Cinderella" (see cover). "Cinderella" was in.
Once again the man who had probably given more theatrical joy to more people than any other living human had reverted to his formula of filming a story of mice and girls, and had produced pure delight. Not since "Snow White" or "Dumbo" was Disney potentially riding so esthetically or financially high.
"Nineteen-fifty," affirmed the Disney organization, "is the Cinderella year." Everybody who had gotten an admission's worth of fun out of a Disney show must have hoped so. For a good many years in the past two decades things have not been too satisfactory for Disney.
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