" ATLANTIDE " AT 'riiu ROYAL OPERA HOUSE, COVENT GARDEN.
Atkntide is one of the few films that for me, at any rate, excuse the existence of that young but already arrogant and undisciplined art-form, the cinematograph. For one thing, the Allantide does not aspire to " greatness "—" greatness " that in the terms of the cinematograph seems to demand pro- longed close-up views of heaving " stars " in agonies of facial contortion. The story, adapted from M. Pierre Benoit's L' Atlantide, tells of an unknown city in the Sahara, a vestige of lost Atlantis, into which explorers from time to time force a passage, to find themselves prisoners and death their only means of escape. Sir Rider Haggard in his romances once beguiled us with similar material. Fortunately the film retells the story simply and directly. There are no incongruities and no exaggerations. It is a French production, and though the actors are unknown to us they are obviously talented. The scenery apparently is Algerian, and in retaining its atmosphere and monotonous beauty the producers have displayed excep- tional artistry. It is remarkable, for instance, how much more effective is a distant string of camels moving across the desert in this film than the elaborate spectacles, the five thousand howling horsemen of the Nebuchadnezzar-Nero genre. The French can evidently teach us something in the matter of the cinematograph. Meanwhile we owe them gratitude for a very agreeable entertainment, which recalls more than anything else those novel-reading days when in quite serious defiance of J. K. S. we prayed there would never come a season " When the Rudyards cease from Kipling,
And the Haggards Ride no more.a C. H.
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