The Film Spectator (Mar-Dec 1928)

Page Twelve last writer is undoubtedly dead, as I found the story in a book published in 1895, and possibly no one else possesses the book. It is a fine moving tale of love and typical movie material. I could mention a dozen good stories, excellent even in box-office angles, but that is not my business. A revival of Jack London's Martin Eden or Bret Harte's "Outcasts of Poker Flat" would make good in capable hands. The familiar wail of producers, "We can't find stories," is a gimcrack for the ears of dubs. The producers should connect with a library votary for information. Instead of sending scouts to view Broadway plays, why not send the office boy to the public library? It requires searching, undoubtedly, to find screen material, because artists do not write originals. None of the stories I have mentioned would be costly in production. Martin Eden, Bel Ami, Justice and White Nights are all intimate tales with great civilizing themes. » • * That cynical tale of the World War, Three Soldiers, would not be costly. The Blood of the Conquerors would be questionable as far as the great American censor and the petty interference of club women are concerned. We will probably not see these stories in the films for some time, with the exception of Galsworthy's Justice, as MetroGoldwyn-Mayer, I believe, holds the rights. I have been told that they are waiting until 1950 before they start production, as they must first finish a large consignment of bed-time stories. That is not a witticism, either. A worker that moves in the seven arts can leave something to posterity. Even a writer of essays leaves his mark. If the work is puerile, the generation following will THE FILM SPECTATOR July 21, 1928 gauge the creation and place its creator in a frightful position. But in the poser of the arts, the motion picture, posterity can not measure the worth of a serious effort. The genuine author knows as long as printed words are in use, his works will live; the sculptor, through production in granite; and the painter, in the gentle hands of a nation or a connoisseur. But who cares about the great motion picture? The much-talked of Birth of a Nation has to-day lost its force. It does not even quicken the pulse of a Kansan. The reason is plain. The thing was full of the mechanics found in the low-grade Western picture of to-day — the picturesque shots of the man on horseback, last-minute rescues, the assault of virtue, theatrical battle-smoke, thunder, and hysterical acting, every act in high tension, not a subdued note — this opus, directed by a man not filled with artistic justice, but motivated by subconscious propaganda. The negro was a despoiler, the white man, prompted by the Almighty. A sympathizer of witch-craft would be just as admirable. « * « Griffith, the real father of the movies, can produce a fine motion picture. Broken Blossoms revealed this. It is difficult to discover the man's actual ideas. He can conceive the most delightful of pastoral scenes. He has a vivid, individual imagination and a detached insight into the characters of his players. To-day it is regretable. The advance of directors less gifted but more worldly is leaving the label, "Griffith", as a name only. If there are any connoisseurs of films containing merit, I have never heard of them. The Last Laugh, if a good Roy Del Ruth ^Directing All Talking ^^HE Vitaphone ___^hh= Special TERROR amer Bros* Pictures, Inc.