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DOG DAYS IN THE MOVIE
The Rin Tin Tinnabulation of the melancholy bells: " Hollywood's canine prince " is dead at the age of 14, after 13 good-luck years of mute but glistening heroism before the camera. " Rin Tin Tin," an obituary reads, " was essentially a gentleman. That is why audiences were so fond of him." He earned $300,000 for his owners and kept Warner Brothers from going" to the dogs. His name must be joined with that of another gentleman and hero, the cowboy Tom Mix, who for many rears kept the Fox corporation in the saddle. Like the puncher, the hound too was to have made a comeback in the era when the bark must be as good as the bite — inevitably to as little success. They never come back ! or if they do, it is not to glamour as of old. For in this cynical period even the dog-stars are suspected. And though statesmen and men of perched brow may assert their devotion to " the art of the western " or " the art of Rin Tin Tin," and thereby vindicate Hollywood and Hays, as well as the aestheticians of the primitive, there is no vindication of Tom Mix or Rin Tin Tin — they need no vindication. In these elementary cinemas of literal and undisturbed action — and audience reaction — with their unvarying formula of suspense and climax and relief, there is no criterion but this formula. The audience delighting in the simplicities of this melodrama does not debate photography, direction or even performance, and recognizes little or no difference between a Tom Mix and a Buck Jones or even a Buddy Roosevelt, between a Rin Tin Tin, Sen., and Rin Tin Tin, Jun., or a Ranger, between a Micke)' Mouse and an Oswald the Rabbit. Once there was Strongheart the dog, and he became one with Rin Tin Tin — distinctions are affectations in this category, dog is not plural. The applause of the audience is not for the singular entree but for the staple condiment, and an}' brand will do — the average housewife can not distinguish between different brands of salt. Claims of superiority are made bv the populist and it is he who betrays the primitive, the elementarv, the staple by branding it " art."
Rin Tin Tin is dead and therefore, being a dog, he must be happy. It is invidious to enshrine him as artist or even as gentleman, though we ma}' permit the latter as a conceit. Yet can I not liear the enterprising critic, in an effort to make his snobber}' popular and profitable, submit the marketable but questionable suggestion : " What the movie needs is another good dog"" Marketable because it is cute and for the moment inveigles the simple audience into a worthless self-esteem. Yesterday such elegances were reserved for effete magazines like l^he Soil, Broom, The Dial. Toda}' they are doled out with blessings on slapstick and " autographed bathtubs " to the vast millions, so easily tantalized and betrayed.
No longer will staples sustain. The need is for diets. The movie " artindustrv," as Jesse Lasky called it, is in a hell of a fix. It is between the
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