Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1920)

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Three Sizes; 60c, ^1.00, ^2.00 At alt toilet countfTS or direct from vn, in plain -WTapper, on receipt of 6jc, ft.O^ or $2.o8, which includes War Tax. Xkjfriiraefc DeptP-28P«rfcAve. and I29th St., New York ij^lfou Write ihe ./ lirV^rds for aSon^ landVllwrite^ UiaSiMMm You, yes, you, write the words for a song and submit to me. If I find the subject or idea suitable for use in a song, win agree to give your poem a musical setting and have the complete song printed according to the plan of the Metropolitan Studios You Can Succeed —make no > mistake about that! You may be interested in knowing that I received my musical education at the Moscow Roynl Conservatory of Music. Moscow, Russia, and later became the royal court pianist. I .have appeared in concerts in all the leading cities of Europe and this country. Among my greatest song successes are:— "If I were a Rose." of which a million conies have been sold, and the national hymn, * America. My Country." Do Dot let another dnr so by without submit' tins a poem to me. Who know.— you may bo the long writer of tomorrow. Address me as follows: Edouard Hesselberg METROPOUTAN STUDIOS 914S. Mickisan Ave., Suite 138 Chicato. ID. MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC The Celluloid Critic {Continued /, couple to keep their marriage a secret from an irascible father, anxious friends and all sorts of other human "complications." Nobody stands out in the farce. Alatt Moore and Marjorie Daw play the newly married couple. If we may judge by the early "Edgar" stories of Booth Tarkington, these short Goldwyn releases are going to be genuinely delightful. "Edgar's Hamlet," for instance, is a decidedly amusing presentation of the youthful Edgar's efforts to produce the Bard's tragedy in the family barn. Tarkington knows youth and enough of Tarkington gets to the screen in these film stories to lift them into the unusual. E. Mason Hopper is directing them very competently. "A Fool and His Money," (Selznick), is based upon a George Barr McCutcheon romance — one of those things that are a thousand miles from real life. A successful American novelist buys an Austrian castle and forthwith discovers a persecuted American girl living in a deserted wing of the structure. Certain mild adventures launch themselves at once. Eugene O'Brien's whimsical left eyebrow is just as whimsical as ever in this cinema effort. Rubye de Remer is much better as the heroine, to our unsophisticated way of thinking. By adroit camera work, Robert Ellis attains some effects of seemingly limitless baronial castle halls. Norma Talmadge's most recent vehicle, "The Woman Gives," (First National), is no better or no worse than her recent vehicles. Indeed, they are all bloodless. We understand that an imperial ukase in the Talmadge fold requires highly emotional roles, stories in which the heroine is absolutely untarnished in thought and action. No wonder Miss Talmadge's vehicles are weak dramas. How can one be emotional about nothing? In "The Woman Gives" she plays a sweet, guileless art model who loves and is beloved by a struggling painter. She chances the loss of this love — the young chap is very jealous — in order to befriend and help a genius who has slipped to the depths thru his wife's infidelity. Then she returns to the man of her heart and to happiness. The story reveals no signs of life anywhere. Miss Talmadge photographs as charmingly as ever — but that is about all one can say. There is no plot development and no characterization anywhere. Neither Edmund Lowe nor John Holliday awaken any interest as the lover and the derelict genius. Nazimova is always vivid enough to lend a certain interest to any screen play. Thus "The Heart of a Child," (Metro), has a measure of appeal. But the whole thing will be quickly forgotten. She plays a little cockney gutter child of the London slums who attracts the eye and love of an English nobleman. Thru his aid she attains stage success and eventually marries her benefactor. The old Cinderella tale is still popular, isn't it? roin page 49) We are still waiting for Nazimova to equal her unforgettable "Revelation." We can easily understand why she has not. She needs a strong restraining hand — a producer or director with courage and will enough to apply her genius in the right sort of stories. At present she is running rampant. Geraldine Farrar, being a most popular operatic Carmen, must needs go on playing fiery Spanish cigaret girls in the films. In "The Woman and the Puppet," (Goldwyn), she flirts with a conceited fop who is adulated by less desirous senoritas, taunts him and snaps her fingers in his face until, enraged, he develops into a caveman. Then he slaps her face — and no mild slaps are they — until the tears come. After which she willingly gives him her lips. We must admit that the audience which observed "The Woman and the Puppet" with us laughed outright at Lou-Tellegen as the lover. It has no sympathy for the sickly sentimentalist who was willing to literally— as well as figuratively — kiss the sehorita's feet. To our mind, "The Woman and the Puppet" is weak screen stuff. Scenarioists seem to be fascinated by the idea that the ocean bottom is studded with treasure as a result of U-boat activities in the recent war. "Below the Surface" and "Terror Island," (both Paramounts), revolve around the identical idea. The first concerns the machinations of a scoundrel and his paramour, who plot to win over a daring young diver that they may use him to recover some of this lost treasure. The diver retains his faith in the adventuress even after her mysterious death in a steamship disaster. But, after he looks thru a porthole of the sunken vessel and sees the woman dead in the arms of the villain, he realizes all, and after the proper period of brain fever, comes back to the village maid who has loved him all along. She is a young woman who was foolish enough to pin her faith in pies rather than rouge. We call "Below the Surface" unpleasant stuff. That is, unpleasant without any real reason for existing; i.e., pointing a cinema moral. "Terror Island" exploits Houdini. It is a five-reel drama done with that deep insight into life displayed by a constructor of serial thrills. In other words, it is a series of palpably absurd incidents intended to be ultra-startling. It isn't. Bert Lytell does not equal his splendid work in "The Right of Way" with his portrayal of the reformed safe opener in "Alias Jimmy Valentine," (Metro). Of course, you remember the stage Valentine, whose nerves were attuned so sensitively that he could open any safe by sandpapering his fingertips and running them o\'er tke vault knobs. Lj-tell, who is steadily advancing, makes a highly likable Jimmy and Vola Vale is a pleasant (Nvnety-fovx)