Film Spectator (1927-1928)

THE FILM SPECTATOR August 6, 1927 is not done. Another bit of pure movie stuff is the effort to leave the hero unstained by giving him a title explain" ing to Tucker’s wife that he has called on her in her boudoir merely to tell her that it’s all off between them. It would have been better to have shown him as a bit devilish right up to the final clinch, for the story made it reasonable for him to play around more or less. A spoken title has the word “okay” in it. As I pointed out once before in The Spectator, that is the height of silliness. There is no such word, A man might write o. k. that way in a spirit of facetiousness, but how under the sun must he speak it to justify its being spelled that way? But it is a nice little picture. It had many opportunities to be off color, but Reed kept it clean and amusing. We have to thank him for that. 4c 4: Jannings Is Superb In Too-Drab Picture The opening sequences in The Way of All Flesh are done splendidly. They are acted admirably and serve to plant in an entertaining and mildly amusing manner just what the story calls for: that Emil Jannings has a happy home life, that he loves his wife and children and is a kind and indulgent husband and father; that he has .a position of trust and is a man of exemplary integrity; that he is fond of clean amusement — in short, that he is a decent, contented American citizen. From these happy scenes there is a gradual transition to a dull note, a note which the picture strikes and holds with monotonous • tenacity. The greater part of the production is an individual sorrow done in monotone. It would have been a more entertaining picture if there had been a suggestion of a bright streak, no matter how narrow, running through the drabness. I do not mean that there should have been comedy relief. God forbid! In several scenes a note of relief could have been struck without departing from the spirit of the story. For instance, Jannings, as an old and broken man, is shown peddling hot chestnuts on cold, winter streets. There are hundreds of pedestrians among whom he moves, but he never makes a sale. The mere fact that a man with such a past had to sell chestnuts on the streets contributed all the pathos that was necessary to the scene. To have shown him making a few sales would have relieved the drabness without lessening in any way the scene’s inherent appeal. I am of the opinion that Jannings’s physical reaction to his sorrows is overdone. I had the feeling as I watched the picture that I could have felt sorrier for him if he had stood up more bravely under the blow that fate had dealt him. His rounded shoulders and his shuffling gait almost got on my nerves. In the final sequence outside his home the expression on his face is that of a man whose mind seems to have lost its power to function. It makes the sequence less compelling. I am not going to waste much sympathy on a man who is himself incapable of being as sorry as I am for his misfortunes. If his mind has failed and he has 'forgotten his troubles there is no reason why I should worry about him. The whole closing sequence would have been much more appealing if Jannings had been shown in possession of both his mental and physical strength, impaired only to the extent that passing years and his great sorrow could not help affecting him. The picture swings too far in the other direction; it goes the limit in Page Eleven showing him as a mental and physical wreck. But it is a fine picture. Jannings’s performance is superb. What a master of expression he is! Purely as a vehicle for displaying the talents of its star The Way of All Flesh is beyond criticism. Victor Fleming’s direction places him among the few really capable directors. In my opinion the bank sequence is one of the best acted and best directed parts of a picture that I ever have seen. Jannings’s subtlety and his nuances, his extraordinary ability to talk with his eyes, and the ever-present impression of a sense of humor, make him magnificent in this sequence; and Fleming has handled it with consummate skill. Belle Bennett and that fascinating Phyllis Haver are excellent. Some day Phyllis’s name is going to consume an enormous quantity of electrical energy. The Way of All Flesh, however, is practically all Jannings. I hope he remains in this country a long time and that he never makes a worse one. If Paramount can maintain such a pace we have in store for us some rare cinematic treats. 4; 4: 4: “Out AU Night” Somewhat Weak A FARCE can go farther in the extravagance of its assumptions than a straight comedy or a drama can be permitted to, but how far can a farce go ? What liberties are allowed it? The humor in a farce is due to the exaggeration of effects and the distortion of incidents. Saintsbury defines the word farce as something that “deals with an actual or possible incident of ordinary life to which comedy complexion is given by its treatment.” As I understand farce it must be based on something reasonable, deriving its humor from the unreasonable manner in which the reasonable thing is treated. The premise of a farce, therefore, should be as plausible as the premise of a serious drama. In Out All Night, the latest Bill Seiter-Reg Denny farce soon to be released by Universal, the main premise is faulty, consequently I can see no merit in the whole thing. Marian Nixon is a stage star — a most fascinating one, by the way — and Wheeler Oakman is the manager for whom she appears. She is too busy to sign a renewal of her contract and her uncle signs it for her, which made it as binding on her as it would have been if Peter the Hermit had signed it for her. But the whole farce is built on the assumption that a clause in the contract prevents her marriage for its duration. Oakman’s persistence in trying to get Marian to sign it herself, and the absence of any title about a power of attorney held by the uncle, clearly establish the fact that the contract is not a binding one, yet all the action of the farce is a succession of efforts to circumvent it. For that reason Out All Night failed to interest me. It is the least meritorious of all the Denny farces that I have seen. One long scene is built on something as absurd as the contract. Marian starts for her apartment in an automatic elevator. She presses the button with the number corresponding with that of her floor. The elevator starts upward. Denny comes along and presses a button to bring it to the ground floor. Half way up with Marian it stops and starts down again in obedience to Denny’s ring. Now automatic elevators do not work that way. The thing is impossible. When one starts upward all the button-pressing on earth will not make it stop until it reaches the floor it starts for. If such were not the case automatic elevators would