Film Fun (Jan - Dec 1916)

niH *$%s im T^HERE are some plays so bad that they are almost good. We have been led to believe that we were to get nothing but the best from the Triangle pictures, but "The Corner" is a species of cheap melodrama that has not had the popular appeal its author and producer hoped for. It was written by C. Gardner Sullivan, who knows better, and supervised by Ince, who can produce really good stuff and who has given the public some wonderful results of photographic direction, combined with a correct sense of the artistic, a large measure of genius, welded with good judgment. He has done it, mind; but notin "The Corner." It seemed almost a pity to me, as I watched the show and listened to the grunts of disapproval all around me, that such a company as the Triangle, with [the remarkable facilities at its command, should so cheapen its reputation by offering this jumble of shoddy claptrap to its audiences. Aside from its palpable endeavor to incite sympathy for a common thief and murderer, it serves no purpose save to make one wish that George Fawcett had had a better vehicle for his very commendable portrayal of a difficult character. Willard Mack was not at all at ease in his conception of a poor engineer, and Clara Williams, who played the wife of the engineer, has a quaint little upward curl to her lips that prevents her from looking as pathetic as one might expect the erring mother of starving children to be. Here's the story: John Adams, an engineer, loses his job. Then he loses his savings account of $900, because the savings bank in which it was "stashed" called in its quick loans. Ordinarily savings banks are not permitted to make "quick loans," but for the purposes of the story the author allowed his savings bank to get above the law. If it comes to a choice of • sob stuff and the law, cut out the law. For what is melodrama without its sob squad? David Waltham, a wealthy man, endeavors to corner the food market on top of all this. He seems to corner a soup supply, according to the reading matter on the boxes. Adams then pulls off a wise stunt by stealing three Vienna loaves in plain sight of the assembled multitude. Even the policeman would notice something queer about a breathless and hatless man madly charging down the center of a public street, with three shrinking Vienna loaves clasped to his bosom. This gets him sixty days in jail ; but how could the author drag in the sob stuff otherwise? The wife and little ones must starve dramatically. They do. The golden-haired little ones, even after a long, hard day in the slums, assemble for supper with curls shining and every hair in place and tied back with expensive ribbons. Not a hint of slum dirt mars their appearance. The wife tries washing. She is a poor laundress, according to her own showing. She washes out an undershirt as she would a leaf of spinach, and leaves the baby to finish the job while she undertakes to stick the colored clothes in the boiler. Every laundress knows that you don't boil colored clothes. No, sir. She was a bum washer, and it was no wonder she lost her job. From the wash tub we see her arrayed in a highly checkered silk dress, starting out on an equally highly checkered career. Also she hasn't the best taste in hats. Even wicked rental agents do not require two floating yards of willow plumes any more. And while she is dining out with said wicked rental agent and copping his roll when he is in his cups, honest but misguided John gets loose and goes home. Well may you shudder. And that is just what happens. Wife comes home late with her glad rags and a good-sized roll, and we have the big scene. John decides to get a job, and gets one in the warehouse of Waltham, the man who must be wicked because he has money. He entices the capitalist into the warehouse late at night, on the assumption that all rich men are so wickedly trustful that they will take such a trip alone late at night on the mere word of a stranger on the 'phone. Waltham is bound and left to starve in the midst of soup. All of the boxes, by common consent, tumble down on the rich man, and the engineer, who must be honest because he is poor, goes home to a late supper. The greatest strength of such enduring pictures as "The Birth of a Nation," David Griffith's masterpiece, lies in the fact that they indicate a conscientious adherence to realistic detail. In "The Corner" there is not the slightest indication that any attention was paid to either realism or detail. The Triangle, it was hoped, would put both comedy and the drama of the films on a higher and more enduring standard. It seems a pity to see it fall so lamentably beneath its own standard. m m J'ever meet Betty Shannon, the world renowned publicity girl from the west? Betty always has a new story, and here's one she handed out the other day at lunch, only she admits it is hearsay and she won't vouch for it. "All right, " grinned Betty. "Hear about the big wrestler that the little wrestler downed the other night? The big chap had tossed everybody to the mat, and the little wrestler, who always wears a mask and will not reveal his identity, suddenly surprised his friends by offering to take on the big fellow for a friendly round. He took him on and threw him within five minutes, and no one but me knows the secret." "Tell me," I begged. "Come on, Betty. I'll never tell." "Well, sir," said Betty, "you must promise cross your heart you'll never tell, for I wouldn't have it get out for the world. But the little fellow found out that the big chap was ticklish, and in the first grab he managed to tickle him in the ribs so deftly that he got the big chap's goat, and he went to the mat. Isn't that the funniest thing you ever heard?" And the young lady marched off down the avenue as smartly as if she had not just told me a most astounding story. Maybe it's true, though. You never know. m * Some of the greatest motion picture fans in the world are to be found in Australia. Sidney has seventy-five picture houses with its population of 700,000. These picture houses charge all the way from ten to sixty cents admission and give the best variety of films. They are Chaplin-mad and will fill the picture houses on a night when a Chaplin film is advertised. The picture houses are closed on Sunday nights, but on every other night in the week they play to capacity.