The screen

HELEN BROWN NORDEN

Some recent films, characters of which present a study in diversity, ranging from Anne of Green Cables to Don Juan

HOLLYWOOD DYNAMITE.—Walter Waiter's first production for Paramount lias turned out to be an astounding picture called The President Vanishes. It has probably been released by this time, but for a while it caused considerable consternation in the hearts of the movie executives. Will Hays didn't want to pass it, and Adolph Zukor, so they said, was afraid of it. It's not hard to figure out why. Despite the fantastic melodrama of its plot, the political implications are loaded with dynamite, and the expose of how wars are made tallies too closely for comfort with some recent international investigations.

The situation, briefly, is this. Europe is at war. In Washington, President Stanley is fighting to keep the United States out of it. Pitted against him is a powerful group of capitalists—the country's biggest newspaper publisher, a great banker, a steel king, an oil tycoon—mighty men to whom war means money and munitions, profit and power. By America's refusal to enter the conflict, they are losing millions daily. Together they plot a colossal campaign to deluge the country with propaganda, and, through the weight of public opinion, force the President into a declaration of enmity. Shrewally aware of the value of slogans— "Remember the Maine", "Make the World Safe for Democracy"—they hit upon the one, "Save America's Honor!" and plaster the land with it. They are also in control of a Fascist organization called the Gray Shirts, a group of enthusiastic, but misguided, young men who have been tricked into believing that war will mean their economic salvation.

The campaign sweeps the country. Women's clubs demand war. Children are taught to shriek, "Save America's Honor!" Mobs of Gray Shirt patriots smash the window's of pacifist-owned stores, break up anti-war meetings, beat and club into submission—sometimes to death—soapbox orators who dare to lift a voice in favor of peace. The entire land is caught up in a frenzy of chauvinism. The President is about to be impeached. Suddenly—he vanishes! The President of the United States has been kidnapped. This supercrime stems the war tide and focuses the attention of our sensation-avid people on the problem of finding their lost leader.

The picture ends with an incredible solution, but not until you have sat through some of the most exciting reels the cinema realm has to offer. Quite apart from its very sound entertainment values, the film is bound to create a great deal of controversy. Its exposure of the political maneuverings of Big Business and the behind-the-scenes of jingoism is sensational. Nothing like it has ever been done in Hollywood before. It is not only an extraordinarily effective piece of anti-war propaganda, but it is indicative of the spirit of the times. This picture would have been impossible five years ago. Today, it w ill probably ofTend a great many people. But there are others to whom its voice will have the bright though ugly ring of truth.

The film was directed by William Wellman, with a swift pace and a daring hand. Arthur Byron plays the President; Janet Beecher, his wife; and Paul Kelly, the Secret Service man. The picture is well cast throughout, with the exception of Peggy Conklin, who, I fear, is not destined to become one of our major actresses of the screen. Far better fodder for the talent scouts is a decorative brunette named Rosalind Russell, who, in the role of a potent Washington hostess, contributes a telling, though slight, characterization.

THE TEN BEST PICTURES OF 1934

1† Happened One Night

Jimmy the Gent

Fog over Frisco

The Affairs of Cellini

Crime without Passion

The Barretts of Wimpole Street

The Pursuit of Happiness

Great Expectations

Music in the Air

One Night of Love

COME-BACK FOR SWANSON.

—On the brighter side of life is the Fox production of Music in the Air, which marks the return to the screen of Gloria Swanson in what is surely the most triumphant come-back of the year. Her Hollywood rivals can take one look at this picture and then go home and cry their eyes out. Cast as a temperamental German prima donna, she sings charmingly, displays an effective flair for comedy, and can still boast the most magnificent eves and the prettiest ankles in pictures.

John Boles plays opposite her, but he is completely put in the shade by young Douglass Montgomery, who out-plays him and out-looks him at every turn of the road. Of course, Mr. Montgomery has the odds on him because he is allowed to appear throughout the film in a pair of very short pants and one of those chic Tyrolean bonnets, while Mr. Boles has to stick to bis regulation trousers which, while they fit him very well, certainly do not have the glamour of Mr. Montgomery's shorts. But then, it is not every gentleman who is built like Mr. Montgomery, and who can look fetching instead of foolish when done up in a Kid Party outfit like this.

The picture was directed by Erich Pommer, the great German director, and it certainly shows what the hand of a master can do. He has a superb and unerring touch:—nothing could be more charming than the scene of the cattle show in the little German village; while the coined bit in the office of the Munich music publisher, with Swanson and Boles acting out their new operetta, is as funny and gay a piece of clowning as I've seen this season —and it's all a matter of the direction. There is also the Jerome Kern music, so there really isn't much left to ask for. In fact, I can't think of when I've seen a better musical film than this one.

DON JUAN RETIRES.—When I went to sec the pre-view of The Private Life of Don Juan, it was with unwilling feet and several qualms. I must admit that when I thought of the elder Mr. Fairbanks impersonating the legendary profligate of 16th Century Spain, the eternal chaser, the holder of the all-time high for lovers, I flinched at the thought. George Raft is more my type. But I had not counted on the fact that both Mr. Fairbanks and his astute dilector, Alexander Korda, were foxy enough to portray Don Juan, not as a dashing young blade in bis prime, but as a middleaged gallant who is about to retire from active duty. I he result is an entertaining and credible picture.

When you first see Don Juan in the film, he is being given a thorough going over by the family doctor. It seems he's worried. He's tired all the time. He's losing his zest. He has climbed too many balconies, and, as he walks home afterward, he begins to wonder, Was it worth it? As he himself slyly puts it, "In the game of love, I find these days that I don't always hold the cards". In other words, Don Juan is beginning to feel his age.

The doctor advises him to cut down on the number of balconies per week, and Don Juan decides to take it easy for a while. Unfortunately, he can't get away because his wife, whom he had deserted, is about to put him in prison for his debts. He is saved from his dilemma by a youthful jackanapes who has been impersonating Don Juan with the ladies of Seville. This rank impostor (who had been doing all right, it seems) is killed by a jealous husband, and the word goes out that Don Juan is dead. The townsfolk give him an elegant funeral, attended by all feminine Seville, to a woman, draped in black and practically drowning in tears over the loss of the Great Lover. The real Don Juan goes to the country, under an assumed name.

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His peaceful retirement has the desired effect, and he soon begins to feel his old vigor coming back. He plans a triumphant return to his former life and is all set to take Seville by storm again. What happens, of course, is that he can't convince anyone that he is the real Don Juan, and when he tries out his old line (consisting mostly of phrases like "I could kill you for being so attractive!") the girls just go into hysterics. The real Don Juan, they assure him, would never have acted like that. Ah, no! The real Don Juan was young and dashing, the real Don Juan had verve and technique. They know:—they've heard all about him. So Don Juan learns the sad truth that once you've become a legend, it's practically impossible to live up to it; and he has to go back to his wife. Even she doesn't think he's as good as she had been led to believe he was.

Benita Hume is the wife, and the cast is replete with beautiful damsels—among them, Nathalie Paley, Joan Gardiner, Merle Oberon. None of them has very much to do, however, outside of looking seductive, and the only real acting is that done by Binnie Barnes as a country barmaid. Her performance has a definite flavor and force to it which make her stand out from all the others, a real person in the midst of a lot of ornamental bric-à-brac.

A CURTSEY TO THE PURITY LEAGUE.—By was of doing their hit to ban obscenity from the silver screen, RKO Radio Pictures have tossed off Anne of Green Gables, once made in the old, silent film days with Mary Miles Minter. Much to my surprise, the picture, saccharine with sentiment though it is, is not really so hard to take after all. I suspect that much of this is due to the performance in the title role of a new young player, formerly known as Dawn O'Day, but now called Anne Shirley. Miss Shirley plays her part with a grave sineerit) which is frequently quite moving, and she looks enchanting in pigtails. I he cast is further benefited by the presence of Helen Westley, 0. P. Heggie, Sara Haden and Tom Brown. You can take the children, if any. and at least you II come out feeling wholesome, which won't hurt you if you don't do it too often.

TWO FOREIGN IMPORTS.—Ketti Gallian, the new French blonde, is making the hearts of Fox go pit-a-pat. They have great hopes for her, and they have already cast her in her second picture, the lead opposite Warner Baxter in Thunder in the Night, to be produced by Erich Pommer— a set-up which should insure her a rosy future. It is a bit difficult to judge her exact value from her first film, Marie Galante. She is pretty enough, but without the mystic allure of a Dietrich; and her handicap with the English language is considerable. Marie Galante is one of those intricate spy problems, in which you suspect everyone, including yourself, and in which the fate of nations is at stake. Miss Gallian is cast as the innocent and bewildered pawn, and, while she acts bewildered enough, the part doesn't call for the display of many other emotions. A more dimensional role, and a little diligent application with McGufTey's First Reader, will do more to show just how fitted she is to hold her own against the field.

Not to be outdone by Gallic guile, England has also gone in for a little export trade with Evelyn Laye, whose Graumont-British film, Evensong, was released here over a month ago. What she can do in Hollywood will be seen when her first American-made picture is released by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Sigmund Romberg and Oscar Hammerstein, 2nd. have done the score and the libretto, Vicki Baum the story. It is to be called The Night Is Young, and Ramon Novarro is co-starred with Miss Laye.

GARBO AGAIN.—The curious excitement attendant on the showing of a new Garbo picture should be ample proof of her undisputed power as a personality. In her new film, The Painted Veil, she is billed simply as "Garbo"; and the moment those five letters are flashed on the screen, something tenses in the audience reaction, and you feel that a magic all too rare has somehow entered the room.

I don't suppose this new picture of hers is a particularly good one. But l can never feel that that is important. The important thing is that incomparable face of hers, the strange and thrilling quality of her presence, the power she has to make, quite effortlessly, reverent fanatics out of those who otherwise deem themselves hut sane and simple folk.

The story is the well-known Somerset Maugham one, of the faithless wife of a British doctor in Shanghai. As punishment for her betrayal, he takes her with him into the heart of a great cholera epidemic. There, in the midst of terror and death, she finds not only her soul's salvation, hut eventually, the straight path of her own heart. Herbert Marshall is the husband and George Brent the lover. They deport themselves adequately enough, but nothing else really matters except the star. There is drama enough in the sheer fact of her presence to dominate completely even such a fantastic plot as this one.

EXIT QUICKLY.—Two of the lesser numbers on the season's ticket are Enter Madame and Bachelor of Arts. The former casts Elissa Landi as an Italian opera singer, and forces upon me the regrettable conclusion that Miss Landi is not, and probably never has been, a very good actress. In my charitable way, I used to think that the fault lay in the apparently interminable succession of bad vehicles she appeared in, but now at last it is gradually dawning on me that even if she were good I wouldn' t like her.

The second picture, Bachelor of Arts, is an incredible little offering which shows you life as it certainly never could be in a co-educational university. Tom Brown and Anita Louise are the lambs led to the sacrifice, hut the saddest bit is a scene which presents Henry B. Walthall as a middle-aged professor and Mae Marsh as his invalid wife. Those of you who still remember with sentiment the dashing colonel and the fragile, frightened girl of 7 he Birth of a Nation will shed a remonstrating tear at the sight of these two aging, gentle, pathetic bit players.

(Additional movie reviews on page 58)