The films of Frank Capra have been a parade of some of the best things yet produced by the American Cinema. And they have been films very American in outlook, humour and feeling. This is not to say, far from it, that his work has been limited in its appeal. Rather that Capra has a definite talent for evoking American dreams and hopes. Since the war, the director has only made a brief handful of pictures …, but, even so, his general neglect in post-war critical circles has been shameful…. I can't help feeling that his latest film, Pocketful of Miracles, is in for a somewhat stormy critical passage.

In the first place, it's such a blithe and cheery piece. A film not above wearing its heart (with a capital H) firmly upon its sleeve. A film unashamedly sentimental, brashly humorous, and determinedly high-spirited. A frolic, a romp, a fairy-tale set against a glitter of neon lights (neon-realism?)—call it what you will. But in short: a completely open piece of sunny entertainment. A film to be accepted firmly on its own carefree terms or not accepted at all….

Capra doesn't demand that you believe in [his] Broadway gypsies, nor indeed does he ask you to accept too resolutely his plot. But it's obvious that he hopes that his wild shenanigans will amuse: and this they do very comfortably….

Pocketful of Miracles is far from being perfect: its pace is often slipshod, its dramatic shape is formless, and at two-and-a-quarter hours it's much, much too long. All this I readily grant, yet the film is to be enjoyed. It's no earth-shaker, neither is it a revelation.