The Cinema
SOME FILMS IN LONDON.
IT is surprising and a little old fashioned that the English film version of Mr. Eden Phillpotts' The American Prisoner should open with two long explanatory. sulAitles. But,
then, the story deals with the early nineteenth century, and is treated in a direct, descriptive, almost Illustrative manner. There were no modern film-stunts, and perhaps this treat- ment suits the material of Mr. 'Eden Phillpotts' story best.
The Squire's daughter loses her heart to an American prisoner in Dartmoor Prison. Carl Brisson, who plays the part, escapes from the prison with the help of an old witch-like woman, whose performance is the one remarkable feature of this colourless production. Wounded in the shoulder, he crawls over the moor, and is eventually found, comforted, and tenderly nursed by the Squire's daughter. There is not much to tell about the story : the American Lieutenant returns to prison and again attempts a second escape with a very jolly, fat negro as a companion. This time his escape is successful, but owing to good luck rather than to any efficiency on his part. The Dartmoor setting is indeed beautiful, and compensated slightly for the uninteresting nature of the theme.
There was something ridiculous about watching this old- fashioned, romantic story slowly unfold with the help of the most strikingly modern of all inventions—the synchronization of the human' voice. I have never heard a talkie in which the reproduction has been more clear—even whispers could be heard. But, alas ! the words which should have given an added interest to the film were so poor, so boring, and unnecessary to the comprehension of the story, that even this technical excellence did not give any life to the film. The American Prisoner, if it were a suitable novel to film at all, should certainly have been made into a silent film.
At the Avenue. Pavilion this week there is one of the best and most varied programmes I have seen in London for
some time. After an old and rather poor Stroheim film, Blind Husbands—which has incidentally some moments of breathless mountain-climbing excitement, we go on to one of Mr. H. G. Wells' comedies, Bluebottles. Miss Elsa Lanchester, who plays with her usual skill a stupid little poverty-stricken girl, finds a policeman's whistle, blows it, and is immediately surrounded by the hosts of Scotland Yard. Quite by accident, Elsa is the means of the capture of a gang of bandits. The next day she is taken by a woman
policeman (who offers her a powder-puff in the taxi) to Scotland Yard, to receive the thanks of the police force and a reward for her services. The reward is an old umbrella from the Lost Property Office which, when Elsa hopefully opens it, is shown to be nothing but a tattered rag.
Mr. Ivor Montague has • directed this little comedy in completely modern style. There are some really funny moments in it, although we feel that the style is perhaps a little too elaborate for the slightness of the plot. I do not think Bluebottles has sufficient stuff in it to judge of Mr. Wells' skill as a scenario writer.
But much more modern than anything that has yet been produced in England is a short impression of the Life and
Death of a Hollywood Extra. It is useless to describe this film in words, as it is pure film-craft, and must be seen in order to be comprehended. This entertaining programme ends with a Chinese fantasy, Rose of Pu-Chui, with an all-Chinese cast—a charming and delicate piece of work. It is remarkable that the direction of this film is entirely Western, although, of course, the Setting and the acting have their own Eastern character : there is a delightful naivete about the slender student hero which no Western film-star could achieve. But perhaps the most refreshing thing about this Chinese silent film is that there is not a trace of vulgarity about it, and this, in these days of snappy talkies, is indeed a quality of distinction. At the Stoll Theatre, Coquette, Mary Pickford's first talkie, is being shown this week. It is so overweighted with " sob- " that it is a little difficult to appreciate Mary Pickford's very charming performance • but this talkie with its almost incomprehensible Southern dialect is an excellent test of the acoustics of any cinema. When Coquette was first released at the New Gallery, it was very difficult to hear what was being said. At the Stoll Theatre—which was built as an Opera Horise=the acoustics are so exceptionally good that one can hear every word. There is no doubt that at this cinema talkies can be heard -better than anywhere else. in
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