The Motion Picture Studio (1922)

THE MOTION PICTURE STUDIO September 16, 1922 AMD Following the example of the “ Star,” we have arranged Jor Ernest G. Allighan and David Robertson ( the black and white artist) to visit film centres each week for the purpose of a humorously informaii\e article with caricature illustrations. As these visitors are physically “ the long and short of it,” the appropriateness of the parody of the Star s” 1 amous headline will readily be seen. It should be explained that all references in this series are perfectly good-humoured and no offence is meatit or should be taken. SQUARING THE CRIMSON CIRCLE IN my unregenerate days I used mentally 1 to devour certain1 lurid literature which dealt with the skill with which one, Bexton Slake, unravelled the mucky deeds of dark¬ ness perpetrated in the name of High Finance. Later I entered journalism. Last week the Call of Duty kicked up a’ nell of a row. It called me from seashores and slackness to Wardour Street and " The Crimson Circle.” According to some authorities “The Crimson Circle ” is a detective storv. I disagree. It is the concentrated essence, the bovrilised version, of all the Bexton Slake adventures that have ever been adven¬ tured. The five thousand feet of film is a ribbon of celluloid gore. Every sprocket hole is a clue — every clue means a mur-r-r-der. I wonder that the linen of the screen did not scorch under the heat of the crimes. By the way, I would like to explain that all good detective yarns are fairly well riddled with improba¬ bilities. And “ The Crimson Circle ” is a good detective yarn. But who careswhether the man was poisoned by a revolver or stabbed with a bottle of prussic acid ? Such minor incidentals do not affect the main issue, ] which was that the man was dead. That’s what I hate about critics. They go off the deep end about trifles and miss the vital points. To my mind how he died doesn’t matter two penn’orth of Old Tom. What matters is that he did die. And there’s no mistake about it in “ The Crimson Circle.” The “ he ” in question, be it noted, is dear old Sydney Paxton. Now who in the big house in the country was unkind enough to give Sydney his passport to the Heavenly Regions ? Anyone will tell you that Sydney has the dove beaten for gentleness and the studio manager for kind-heartedness. And, yet some inky-souled son-of-a-gun supplied Sydney with the “ Sesame ” of the Pearly Gates. Now, what I admire about Sydney is his death. He makes a nice corpse. And, what’s more, he dies nice. Doesn’t make a fuss, or want to write to John Bull about it. He just receives the stab of the arsenic with the same smile with which he signs his cheques .... a very considerate sorter corpse, is Sydney ; no bucket of water and stiff-broom needed afterwards — not even the antimacassar creased. Well, as I say, Sydney Paxton got it right where the chicken got the chopper. And (fortunately for the criminal — and Edgar Wallace) he just said his prayers in silent shorthand, cockled in at the knees, and buried his dear slim self in the cushions. Of course, sus¬ picion pointed to the heroine in true Wallacian fashion. And that was a pity, because the heroine was Madge Stuart. I’m rather fond of Madge. But Fred Groves, whose middle name is Duty, arrested her in his best House Committee style. It was at this particular moment that my loins were seized with paroxysms of disap¬ pointment. I had banked on the rivalry of the Entertainments and House Committees. 1 felt convinced that the two chairmen would fight the battle of the green table on the green grass. I imagined that the olfactory organ of Fred Groves would collide with the third knuckle of Rex Davis’s fist. And all the Irish blood in me reached boilingpoint. But it never came to pass. Rex, who loved the heroine, allowed her to be dragged away to the castle dungeon under the moat (Cell 973 in Bow .Street, really) with no more expression of feeling than to knock Law Arthur Walcott as King Bsaver with Bertram Burleigh as H air Apparent ford Davison flat, which wasn’t a kind thing to do. For all that Lawford had done was to make love to the heroine. Who wouldn’t ? But long before this I had had a little trouble all of my own — -the Artist-Fellow. Although, of course, he’s scarcely a little trouble. ’Twas thusly : Earlier on in the story, Rex Davis, who has developed a most disconcerting Naresque manner, indulged in some “ low-lights-and-soft-music” stuff with the heroine. But she wasn’t having any. At least, that’s what it amounted to. Recalling all the delightful passages of Ethel M. Dell she told him that " it cannot be.” And you all know what that means. It’s an invitation to the man to — a la “ Way of an Eagle ” — • crush her to his breast, smother her eyes with kisses, press his burning passionate lips to hers of the same ilk, and with a voice vibrant with emotion exclaim tenderly : “ But, it must be — -it shall be.” Not so with Rex. After vainly endeavour¬ ing to screw a tear out of his smiling eyes he seizes his nice kid gloves in both hands and wrings tears out of them until they splash in a steady stream on the floor. This was too much for the Artist-Fellow^, who’s got such a darned silly, sentimental nature that he had to blub in sympathy. Which was alright so far as it went. And it went on the crepe de chine dress of the lady next him. If the lady will send her claim to this office we’ll deduct it out of the ArtistFellow’s salary. And, here let me pause to give a right royal welcome to Arthur Walcott, the King Beaver ! He carried his honours and his years verj' well indeed. But behind the wealth of facial fungi beats a kindly heart. Well, as I was about to remark. “ The Crimson Circle ” is a pictorial record of No. 9 Great Newport Street. I have heard say that there are two famous people in the club — a lady who is not in the Club picture and a man who is not on a Committee ! Nor must I omit to refer to the gracious speech by Eva Moore who explained what the film was for and why it was made. But Miss Moore never told how the idea originated because she probabty did not know. It was about last Christmas when George Ridgwell and I were just arranging to secure the Club premises. The next morn¬ ing my ’phone bell rang and I heard the old familiar voice — as eager as ever, as optimistic as ever : “ Say, Ernie, listen, I’ve got a brain wave.” And I listened while George unfolded his great idea. I saw in a moment its possibilities, and The Madgical Eve of Miss Stuart it was that idea that conclusivly pursuaded us to take No. 9. The worst that folks can say about George is that he is the quintessence of optimism. But the best of his brand of optimism is that it always succeeds. “ The Crimson Circle” is a typical example of this. And, so “ The Crimson Circle ” will go out to the world. Being truthful rather 12