Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 5, No. 7 (1931-04)

206 upon the screen. He applied his discovered knowl- edge to the showing of “The Birth of a Nation,” one of the most emotionally effective film dramas in all film history, silent or otherwise. Behind the screen upon which “The Birth of a Nation,” was projected, was a staff of 24 noise makers, their efforts directed by a noise director, seated at a switchboard which controlled various signal lights each light calling into play one of the staff of noise-agents. Seated at this switchboard, the director could see the film as it was shown. From this position of vantage, he directed his forces just as the leader of a symphony orchestra directs the men playing before him, and to the same pur- pose. Sound, plying its forces upon the minds of the spectator, backed up and emphasized what the eye beheld upon the screen. In just such a fashion does a capable composer of music use one voice of his orchestra to reinforce and make more ef- fective another, in order to gain some desired ef- fect. When producers learn that volume is not ne- cessarally emphasis, disaster does not so much lurk in occasional lapses of talk as in continual vocalization, sound will come into its proper place in the general scheme of picture production. Some European directors have already learned the value of silence. As yet, in this country, ex- cept in rare instances, the talking apparatus is still too new a toy to be permitted a second’s rest. In “East Lynne,” however, there is one excellent example of at least partial silence. Miss Hard- ing as Lady Isabel and Mr. Brook, as Levison, are returning from some social event. They leave the carriage at the curb and walk together up the pathway and to the door of Lady Isabel’s home. They come in silence save for a single sketchy sentence, something about a lonely old woman, spoken just as the couple pass out of sight within the house. It is an excellent example of a direc- tor’s courage in discarding the illusion-destroying idea that, in a motion picture, the spectator must be ubiquitous. Taking R.K.O.’s really great production of Ed- na Furber’s novel “Cimarron,” under considera- tion, here again the picture gains immensely in the realization of the aims of its makers because of the vocal choirs engaged in the making of it. Richard Dix, Irene Dunne, and all that vast com- pany which came and went in this great epic of the building of a state, possessed, or were so di- rected as to seem to possess, voices that produced inner harmony. In sound, apart from dialogue, again good direction did much for this film. Ex- citement is made to grow so much through things that you see, as through things that you feel. And, in my opinion, the secret of arousing emo- tion in an audience lies more in sound than in vision, other factors being equal. As the last remaining producer and film star to hold firm and unshaken to his belief in talkless pictures, the result of Charlie Chaplin’s latest production, “City Lights,” is naturally a subject The Phonograph Monthly Review of general interest both in and outside of the film world. While he will not admit the need, or usefulness, of talking in the making of motion pictures, Chaplin does not turn a deaf ear to value of sound. Hence, “City Lights,” presents the one, and so far as I am alware, solitary example of a sound-without-talk film now before the public, excepting, of course, the synchronized revivals of the old films. “City Lights” is a new production made and released in contemplated competition with the talking screen attractions with which it is con- temporary. It is Chaplin, barring some added flesh which in some subtle sort of way takes off the edge of his pantomimic ability, a marvellous- ly developed gift in its day, just as the generation of silent picture audiences knew and loved him. Little has been changed, practically no improve- ments have been made. Sound built into the film takes the place of appropriate sounds produced formerly from the orchestra pit from a carefully notated cue-sheet. It offers throughout a fine ex- ample of sound film making. In its opening scene people seem to speak dialogue, but actually make only curious inarticulate sounds, thereby preserv- ing the Chaplin integrity in the matter of refus- ing to acknowledge the value of spoken dialogue, without entirely denying himself certain of its benefits. It results in a delightful bit of satiri- cal filming quite without precedent. Much could be done along the line of characterized sound, that is to say, sound used for its own sake, rath- er than because of any meaning it might have inherent in it. More and more directors and, perhaps what is more important, producers, are becoming ac- quainted with the fact that sound is a great force; that many fine things can be done by means of it. Sous les Toils de Paris The first of French talkies to reach these shores, and an in- stantaneous success in the various small art-film houses where it has been shown is represented on discs by the title song—an attractive waltz, and a vivacious fox-trot, C’est pas comme ca, both played in Marek Weber’s familiar polished manner, recorded with a careful ear for the orchestra’s excellent tonal qualities. Nick Lucas and his Troubadours bring out an Americanized version of Marlene Dietrich’s hit from the Blue Angel—Falling in Love Again, but the piece loses by naturalization; better is Lucas’ dapper performance of a jaunty tune—Walkin’ My Baby Back Home (Brunswick 6048). (The latter piece is also done in animated style by Johnny Walker for Columbia (2404-D).