Screenland (Oct 1923-Mar 1924)

40 gles who finds himself in Red Gap. He, too, is excellent. And the Hon. George is very well done by Frank Elliott. I think you will find Rugglcs of Red Gap to be highly amusing. Anyway, it served to clinch my faith in Cruze. I am now ready to add him to my list of the six best directors. Another new film effort I am sure you will enjoy is Harold Lloyd's Why Worry. Harold Lloyd's New Comedy Worry is distinctly of the slapstick farce school — and is a little bit messier than any Lloyd comedy recently. Harold, praise be, doesn't hesitate to hurl a tomato upon occasion. Which is as it should be. Our screen is too darn refined. Oh, for the happy days when Mack Sennett's bathing beauties used to slide downstairs in bathtubs ! The story is infinitesimal. Something or other about a young chap who fancies himself an invalid and who goes to a South American republic for rest and seclusion. Unfortunately, he selects the exact moment of the current revolution. Why Worry has a number of adroitly worked out comedy '} C G c or g c Arlis s' performance of the Rajah of Rnkh in The Green Goddess is one of the best bits of screen playing of the year. bits. And the use of the giant, John Aason, as a'gargantuan native who adopts Harold unto himself was a stroke of genius. Here is a remarkable character, for Colosso wrecks the revolution with a section of stove pipe, tobacco smoke and some well directed oranges. Lloyd is pretty much as usual in W h y W o r r y. Which means he gives a carefully conceived comic performance. And there is a pretty new leading woman, Jobyna Ralston, who c\ has flashes of looking like Bebe Daniels in old Pathe days. But it is the massive Mr. Aason, as the gigantically childish Man Friday, who is the real first aid of what might have been nothing but a rather aged comedy idea. The Hunchback Is Gory ok the life of us, me, I can't see why Universal selected Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Noire Dame for film purposes. It was a gory, howbeit masterly, tale of a cold, hard and cruel age. Carl Laemmle has seen fit to delete much of this gore — but there is enough left to torture the average audience. The Hunchback of Notre Dame is far from cheery film fare. .Still, Mr. Laemmle, whose portrait graced the New York program along with that of Monsieur Hugo, saw fit to spend a lot of money on the visualization. Far be it from me to guess how much. Anyway, he utilized thousands of extras and built the first floor of the famous cathedral, getting the rest with trick photography. (And I'll admit frankly, darned clever camera work.) The Hunchback of Notre Dame, however, didn't bore us because of any of the things I have enumerated. It is poorly directed, by Wallace Worsley, and its characters never live for a moment. They are just actors going through elaborate pantomime. Let me consider Lon Chaney as Quasimodo, the distorted hunchback of Hugo's imagination. Right here let me say that I don't think Chaney is a good actor. No matter how many letters you write about this, I'm going to stick to my story. He's a good contortionist but a poor actor. Chaney wears a queer rubber contrivance over his shoulders and arms to accentuate his physical distortions. And a fearful facial make-up tops it off. Through many scenes Quasimodo lears, glares and spits right at the camera but, to me, he is never anything but Lon Chaney on an actor's holiday right in front of the lens. To me this isn't the real Quasimodo. And certainly the childish Hollywood flapper of Patsy Ruth Miller isn't the Esmeralda that Hugo drew word upon word. Ernest Torrence as the king of the underworld, Clopin, is more in the picture than any of the big cast. Mr. Laemmle has seen fit to adapt a happy ending to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Just now it has one of those novel fade-out clinches in a garden. Still, there is blood brutality enough, at that. "The lashing of the Quasimodo annoyed me enough. I don't pretend to know much about the period of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, in and about the cheery year of 1482. But it seems to me to have young nobles strolling about massive castle interiors in full armor and calling upon their ladys faire without removing their helmets is going a bit far. Now isn't it ? I leave it to you. And I'm not one to draw a fine line, either. Presenting New York's Roaring '40s I can't tell exactly what happened to Avery Hopwood's tale of New York's roaring '40s, The Gold Diggers, between the footlights and screen, but something dreadful occurred .somewhere. The stage piece has at least a measure of sparkle but the film doesn't effervesce a bit. "The Gold Diggers is sophisticated stuff. As the family motion picture periodicals would say, it isn't for the whole family. No, no ! Mr. Hopwood would have us believe that the merry ladies of the chorus merely go gold digging to keep their hand in. At heart, they're nice gels. One of them loves the rich Stephen Lee's nephew and, when he refuses hi., consent to a marriage, the whole crowd of gold diggers starts out to bring Mr. Lee to terms. Of course, he collapses before the combined attack — and himself weds the chief diggerine. As I said before, I suggest you keep little Rollo away from the Bijou the night this plays your town. Hope Hampton shows to better advantage than ever before as Jerry La Mar, chief gold prospector. Louise Fazenda dents the screen for a real hit as a jazzy chorine. Funny how these ex-Mack Sennetters knock a dramatic ensemble into a cocked hat when they invade the screen. And Alec Francis is good as Mr. Lee's elderly attorney, a gentleman with „ , • sportive tendencies if you must know. [Continued on page 100]