We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
road exemplified a national spirit which refused defeat and welded an empire . . . upon those stirring facts the director, too engrossed in the scenery, devotes little time and less skill . . . some of this scenic footage is superlative but it serves only by contrast to accentuate the deficiencies of casting and the puerility of the plot.,,
Production in The Great Ziegfeld was stunningly costumed choruses of singers and dancers on a colossal, spiralling ramp with its tip in the starry heavens and other breath-taking ensembles. In San Francisco the earthquake and the fire. In the Good Earth the drouth and locust scenes, the military and the mob. In Old Chicago, the fire; in The Hurricane, the hurricane, and in only one instance did those values obtrude upon, retard or scatter a rising interest in main events and that was in The Good Earth.
The initial destructive force in The Good Earth, drouth, had had its day when locusts swarmed into action. At that point however, not locusrs but Wang Lung's inhumanity was in the ascendant.
The locust invasion was in itself an awesome and fearful spectacle, the havoc wrought, whole sections of grain destroyed and scores of humans prostrated, faded everything else into insignificance, making Olan's dumb suffering and the build-up of Wang Lung's selfesteem inconsequential in contrast, incidental, not overwhelming. Nothing could have topped that locust invasion as an obtrusive force.
In The Great Ziegfeld, production was the main sympathetic pursuit, the story of the rise and decline of the late Florenz Ziegfeld, high priest of glamour a name symbolical of production throughout the world of the theatre. Master showman, how he would have enjoyed Metro-Goldwin-Mayer's spiralling ramp kissing the sky.
In San Francisco, Blackie, the hero, became a local Caeser, a dictator with an ever tightening grip on the political destinies of a great city, a power that grew to such proportions nothing less than an earthquake and a citywide fire could curb it.
Production can be as compelling as an undraped female and quite as effective in taking audience mind off furtherance of main pursuits, yet strange to
160