Hollywood Spectator (1931)

io Hollywood Spectator established some of the members of its cast as box-office favorites. It would have made Howard a star overnight, and Van Dyke would have been hailed for what he is, one of our really great directors, a reputation that he can not earn by making talkies. When the public does not take talkies themselves seriously, it scarcely will accord praise to those who make them. When it gets about one-third of its way along its course. Never the Twain Shall Meet drags so much that it almost stops, but it takes a leap upward when it presents a quarrel scene between Howard and Clyde Cook, a magnificently acted and beautifully directed scene that is a cinematic gem. Before that, of course, there are some splendidly done scenes, but they are separated by dull spots, but from the quarrel scene to the final fadeout the story flows along smoothly, the acting is of the finest quality and the direction is masterly. Pictorial beauty, always a feature of a Van Dyke picture, is very prominent in this production. Some of the glorious shots that Metro had left over when it cut the picture that Van Dyke made in the South Seas, are used to good effect in this one. ▼ ▼ It IS THE first time I have seen Leslie Howard on the screen. He is every bit as good as I would expect him to be after seeing him in Berkeley Square. He practically is all there is to Never the T wain until Clyde Cook comes onto the screen and shares the honors of some of the scenes with him. The gradual disintegration of Howard’s character until it almost touches bottom, is brought out by as beautiful an exhibition of acting as I have seen on the screen, and reflects the greatest credit on the director. Cook’s work in this picture should earn for him many other opportunities to demonstrate what a fine character actor he is. Karen Morley is a young woman whom I never saw before. I hope her presence is sprinkled here and there through all the rest of the pictures I see. She reminds me of all the pleasant screen memories I have — a wholesome girl, rich in that quality that endears Kay Johnson to her audiences. Conchita Montenegro is featured with Howard. She proves thoroughly satisfactory. C. Aubrey Smith, Mitchell Lewis and Hale Hamilton have smaller parts, and each of them does excellently. In a recent review of Drums of Jeopardy I overlooked crediting Hamilton with good work. I have seen him on the screen quite often of late and he always is capable and agreeable. I suppose Never the T wain has played its way out of these parts, but if you have missed it and happen to find it blazoned on any marquee, don’t overlook it. There is much in it that you will admire. ▼ V ▼ ^ ▼ The OTHER night some of us were comparing notes on stage comedies we had seen. When it became my turn to tell of the one that caused me most laughter I surprised my guests by stating that it was one done in French and which I had seen in London before I knew a word of the French language; that there was practically no pantomime and that all the comedy was carried in the lines. I explained. Some London friends asked me to accompany them one Sunday night to witness a performance being put on by a company that was com ing over from Paris for this one occasion. I couldn’t get out of it even after protesting that my ignorance of the French language was complete. After the curtain went up the only thing that held my interest was the fat neck of the man in the seat in front of mine. The neck protruded above the collar, and I noticed that it would grow purple a moment before the man burst into laughter at a bit of humor in the lines. I thought I might as well beat the audience to it. As soon as I would notice the neck beginning to get purple, I would laugh out loud, and the audience, including the fat man, got its cue from me. It struck me as being so funny that I couldn’t restrain myself, and soon I almost was screaming as soon as a suggestion of purple appeared. The performance was a terrific success, and my friends, after chiding me for professing ignorance of French, congratulated me upon grasping the humor in the lines before even the French people in the audience. ▼ ^ She’s ELEVEN, she writes me from Minneapolis, and whenever I write anything about my dog and cat companions her father gives her the Spectator and shows her where to look. I’ve mentioned the names of Virgil and Stingy, the terriers, and Charles, the huge black cat, she says, but I haven’t given the name of the orange Persian kitten. What is it? We call him Lester, Barbara, for no reason whatever, unless it be that we never have heard of a cat named Lester. And then Barbara gets down to the serious purpose of her communication. She has a little dog that she likes very much. She likes me, too. Her father tells her that Virgil was a man, and her father’s name is Charles. If I call a dog and a cat after men, would it be all right if she called her dog after me? Her mother thinks it a perfectly awful thing to ask me, but can she do it? Well, Barbara, I don’t know. I’ve had a pretty tough time all my life living up to Dr. Beverly Welford, the fine old man after whom I am named, and I’m not quite sure that I want to take on the added burden of living up to anything as noble as a good dog. I can’t match him for unselfish devotion, loyalty, faithfulness. . . . Stingy has waddled into my library and I’ve consulted him about it. Go ahead. Perhaps your dog won’t mind it, and I know it will make me proud. v v Some weeks ago Edwin Schallert, in the Los Angeles Times, roundly scored the film industry for some of its ways. Since that time a number of film papers have been trying to discover just what the Times and the industry have quarreled about. They agree that the Los Angeles paper must be mad about something. That the film industry was criticised because it deserved criticism apparently has occurred to no one. Our film barons are so sure of themselves that they really believe adverse comment on their manner of running the business is inspired by personal animus. Joe Schenck once told me that I was a menace to the film industry because I had written that it was an insane proceeding for him to pay more than one hundred thousand dollars for Sons o' Guns. He actually thought that characterizing any of his acts as unwise imperilled all Hollywood. Louis B. Mayer accused me of trying to blackmail the industry. That interested me. Perhaps, I thought, I am going through all the motions of the skilled blackmailer.