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118
Photoplay Magazine
*M
dustily into the light, and suffers its little tinhorn append ages to have a polishing on behalf of a tardy exploiter. William Farnum. It makes a joke of its author, and as a vehicle for Farnum and Dorothy Bernard it is as appropriate as a suit of pajamas at a formal dinner. A .real thrill at the finish enables it to get by ; only Farnum could so terribly and realistically drag the villain through the whole length of a village street, and literally hurl him onto a pedestal for public recantation.
What is Fox going to do with Theda B a r a ? This woman is
sheer mental atti "The. *& °{ £, l?TTu Wh, °??n'n " ' Jhe k%v ™t onlv one of the country's big
Decides, established beautiful Dorothy Kelly . , . °
tude. In the lat as an emotional actress.
ter part of this
picture you don't feel that Virginia Pearson is craftily pencilled up ; you feel that Margaret Walsh — her character — has actually become a bitter old woman. Throughout, hers is a magnificent performance in a smartly dressed, asthmatic joke of a play. Frank Burbeck, splendid and dignified character maker, is right beside her as long as his part lasts. Wilmuth Merkyl is merely an heroic statue of the genus Leading Man.
Henry Arthur Jones' melodrama. "Hoodman Blind," was — like 16 to 1 and Free Trade — a correct and acceptable argument in its day, but it should long since have been buried with its brethren. Under the name "A Man of Sorrow" it is brought
gest drawing cards, but she is a worker. She has brains, ambition, willingness to learn. Even in her explosive plays she has been improving right along. In "The Eternal Sapho" she shows flashes of character definition and intense dramatic expression which she has not previously manifested. The piece itself is ponderously negligible, except as peppery fodder for those who like their sex-drama raw. with a paprika plot to hide its vulgarity. As for personality — no woman on the screen has a personality more extraordinarily individual than Theda the Scarlet.
nr HE Moment Before" is a play of pretentiousness from the pen of Israel Zangwill. The moment before — what? Death. In that supreme instant, which