Centelha de Amor

With snow falling softly over a back-lot Manhattan, and a French boîte where a Benedictine bottle holds the shade for a table lamp, how can anybody resist The Voice of the Turtle (Irving Rapper's adaptation of the John Van Druten stage hit, reissued as One for the Book)? It's a bit of romantic fluff set on the home front during the Second World War that somehow survives into the new millennium with much of its artifice and most of its charm intact.

Circumstances throw together struggling young actress Eleanor Parker, on the rebound, and furloughed serviceman Ronald Reagan, who has just been daintily dumped by Eve Arden. Since hotel rooms are hard to come by on rainy nights in wartime, Reagan ends up spending the night on a studio bed in Parker's apartment. And the inevitable happens – they fall in love.

That's just about all there is to it, allowing for some excursions into the New York theater world. But the cast, none of whom was on Hollywood's A-list at the time, gives it their best. This was the sort of amiable, easy-going role that Reagan played best, from the movies to the White House. Parker (in a dreadful hairdo) seems a little tense in the ditzy part of an ingenue with a slight obsessive-compulsive disorder, but ultimately she wins us over. Best of all is Arden, for once not a vinegar virgin but a high-fashion woman-about-town who's possessive about the multiple men in her life only when she's about to lose them. All told, The Voice of the Turtle is a somewhat faded sachet that brings back nostalgic memories of a 1940s Manhattan that probably never existed – but makes it fun to daydream that maybe once it did.