Close Up (Jul-Nov 1927)

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CLOSE UP flavoured establishment and the secret murder, wasn't commonplace, wasn't trivial, partook of the most etherial overtones of subtlety. Tragedy rang like little bells, fain.' bells almost. Tragedy didn't dare, those days, to stalk openly in its ornate purple. Not in Europe, not in London or Paris or Vienna. Murder and pearls and speculation seemed perilouslv a part of life in those days. Tragedy was a muse whose glor^' was for the moment over-shadowed with an almost mystical, hardly to be expressed quality that one might possibly define as pathos. Beaut}' and the warrior were at rest. For the rest of us in London and Paris and Vienna, there was something different, something too subtle to be called disinte^ation or dissociation, but a state in which the soul and body didn't seem on good tenns. Hardly on speaking terms. So it is that this fine little Greta Garbo with her youth, her purity, her straight brows and her unqualifi.ed distinction found a role to fi-t her. She had, it is true, appeared, I am. told, creditably in other films ; it was my good fortune to m.eet her first in this " Jojdess Street" or, asitwasbilledin our lake Geneva smallto\ra, "La Petite Rue Sans Joie". The theatre, I need hardly say, was half empty. The periomiance began with a street (will I ever forget it) and the sombre plodding limp of a onelegged, old ruffian. Xo appeal to pity, to beaut}', the distinguished mind that conceived this opening said simply, this is it, this is us, no glory, no pathos, no glamour. Just along, Freudian, tunnel-like, dark street. Nothing within sight, nothing to dream of or ponder on but. . . the butcher's shop with its attendant, terrible, waiting line of frenzied women. 30