Hollywood Spectator (1931)

xo Hollywood Spectator intent upon his destruction, were amusing, and held the audience better than any other scene in the picture. The story afforded a wealth of opportunity for more of this, with its chases and duckings, but it is adapted from a play, so naturally there was a great deal of unnecessary dialogue. But there is less than usual cause for complaint, because the camera travels after the players rather well, and the story moves ahead swiftly. Ruggles, I think, will become increasingly popular as he is given more opportunities to twist his amusing features about. Sue Conroy, who is his beloved, has some of the charm of Hedda Hooper, but I wish the camera would be a little more careful of her profile shots. She manages to escape the staginess of Margaret Dumont, who was given a rather difficult part, and to my way of thinking slightly over-played it. Perhaps this is the fault of director Edward Cline, for I remember one sequence where Ruggles, Conroy and Dumont halted in the midst of a walk, faced the camera, and talked. People do not stop and turn left when they are talking. Nor do they group themselves. Nor do they become unnecessarily dramatic. Nor are they aware that the world is hanging upon their words. Allen Jenkins makes a very menacing gangster, and Donald Meek as the butler amused me even though his work was stagey. Tamara Geva, I hope will be given better parts in the future. I rather think the makings of a star are concealed within her. Douglas Gilmore, Jerome Daley and Betty Garde comprised the cast of this Paramount production. Ballyhoo Vindicated ▼ ▼ FREE SOUL is the first picture I have seen in months that justifies the tremendous uproar made at the publicity offices before release. I enjoyed it so much that I couldn’t trust myself to write about it when I went home. I wanted to sleep the matter over, because no self-respecting reviewer wants to say a lot of nice things for which he is going to be sorry. But I have waited three days now, and I still think Free Soul is a whale of a picture. Moreover I think that Clarence Brown is one of the best, and that Miss Shearer is lovely almost beyond endurance, and that Lionel Barrymore has turned in one of the finest pieces of work to the credit of the screen. A shameful confession, in a day when everybody is panning everybody else and wondering how long the studio doors are going to remain open. But I am adamant in my beliefs. I am informed that the story of Adela Rogers St. Johns, from which the motion picture is taken, is as sorry a mess of tripe as one might expect from a Liberty contributor, but on the screen it goes quite well. It relates the story of a girl suckled on the modern theory of complete freedom, privileged to follow the dictates of her heart and passion, learning only from mistakes, and regretful for nothing. But like most theories modern or ancient, it proves to be the veriest tosh. The girl runs amok with a gangster, somebody is killed, and her father is ruined by the very ideas he has inculcated in his daughter. Clarence Brown handles the story deftly and with good taste, and there is a solid ring of logic about the affair that convinces. Lionel Barrymore is always expected to turn in a capital performance, but in Free Soul his work is something more than capital. The affection existing between Shearer and Barrymore as daughter and father is something fine and clean, for all the sorry climax it induces. Barrymore’s court scene is gripping, and only now does it occur to me that it was perhaps a little over dramatic. Clark Gable is one gangster who is portrayed as a rat, is a rat, and dies like a rat. There is little audience sympathy with him, which is some thing unusual in a day when gangsters are demigods with a gallery following every move. Leslie Howard is consummately fine in a part which is far too small. I like the way Miss Shearer bandied about such words as “gosh” and “darn.” And I like her freedom from stage accent. And from the depths of my abysmal ignorance I should like to inquire from where comes that startling line which reads “. . . the moonbeams turned to worms . . . and crawled away.” Is it possible that St. Johns has written it? Or is it a quotation that every literate man should know? Anyhow it struck me in the face and I shall not soon forget it. In the face of a dismal summer I welcome Free Soul and hope it plays for three years and makes enough money to retire the national debt. M-G-M can be forgiven half a dozen poor pictures for this one. Hotel Mark Twain In the Heart of Hollywood 1622 No. Wilcox Avenue Weekly and Monthly Rates, at Moderate Prices Baths or Showers in Every Room J. W. THOMSON, Prop. Telephone: HE. 2111 Were you particularly interested in some article in this issue which you would like someone else to see? The Hollywood Spectator will be glad to send a copy of this issue FREE to any person whose name you designate below: Please send a copy of this number to Name . Address And mark article entitled Your Name.