Picture-Play Magazine (Sep 1928 - Feb 1929)

71 »Rgi?ieui7 The mantle of charity is thrown over more than a few pictures this month, but between its folds seen some good performances. are celebration, photographed in color. Surprisingly, Fay Wray plays Mitzi with passion, abandon, and charm. Every one else in the picture is also effective, with the honors naturally centering on Zasu Pitts, a tragic figure of infinite pathos, as Cecelia Schzvcisscr, the lame heiress. Lo, Here is a Man and Artist. The strength and delicacy of Lon Chaney's acting were never more apparent than in "While the City Sleeps." His fans should not even think of missing it. I can imagine no casual moviegoer witnessing it without responding emotionally to Mr. Chaney's character in the picture, and feeling the suspense and thrills of the picture itself, while the dyed-inthe-wool fan must honor the man whose service on the screen has never caused him to attempt "artiness" at their expense. He communicates his thoughts and feelings in the language of pictures, with such graphic skill that the spectator never finds himself watching Mr. Chaney impersonally, or with his thoughts elsewhere. In his new film he assumes no disguise or distortion, for his role is that of a plain-clothes man attached to the New York police department. Dan Coghlan is zealous, fearless, and footsore, as human as a father and, beneath his gruff and forbidding exterior, as emotional as a lover. Among all the criminals Skeeter is his especial quarry, and his pursuit of the crook involves him in the love affairs of Myrtle, a girl of the tenements, whom he has seen grow up, and Marty, the young fellow she loves, who is weakly drawn into the operations of Skeeter and his cohorts. Mr. Chaney's usual sacrifice is brought about with heartbreaking tenderness and strict logic. Marty, whom he has saved from the police, leaves town by Dan's order, and Myrtle, grateful to the detective for having saved her life, promises to marry him. She tells Marty this and sends him away, but to Dan her sobbing behind a closed door reveals the truth, and he brings the young lovers together. All this is related with the maximum of authority, reality, and fineness of feeling. Nor are the thrills of physical conflict lacking. The gunplay, cruelty and treachery of the underworld are here unglossed by sentimentality, or fictitious romance. In so sturdy a picture Fay Wray gives a surprising performance in "The Wedding March," with Erich von Stroheim as her director and foil. good acting should abound, ai\d it does. Anita Page, Carroll Nye, Wheelerman Oakman, Mae Busch, and Polly Moran are in keeping with Mr. Chaney's high standard, but it is his picture, first, last, and always. An Eclair. "Our Dancing Daughters" is so clearly marked with the stamp of enormous box-office success, that my objections to it are overruled before they are written. If a lone fan agrees with me I shall feel that my criticism is not in vain. Come, now, won't some one stand by me in the face of all the acclaim the picture is getting? There's no denying that it is entertaining, lively, richly produced and at times well acted. To this are added sound effects, wild parties among the younger set and considerable jazz dancing on the part of Joan Crawford, who is a spangled dart of pure light and, as such, is a joy to behold. All this activity purports to be the life of what has come to be known as flaming youth. Whether it is, or isn't, doesn't matter in the least. It is what flaming youth likes to see itself doing. What affords me cynical amusement is that the motives of the characters are really mid-Victorian, and as an expose of jazz-mad youth "Our Dancing Daughters" is as empty as an unfilled eclair and as unsubstantial. In the first place, we have two modern girls, Diana and Anne, maneuvering for the heart, hand and millions of one Ben. Diana is careless, though good as gold, and Anne is mercenary while posing as a shy ingenue. Each brings her respective wiles to bear, and when Anne trumps Diana she openly exults, while Diana mopes, languishes, and acts the martyred heroine generally. My point is that girls, if they are really modern, do not so glorify the male by openly pursuing him and proclaiming themselves rivals. Also, the modern girl has developed a philosophy which she brings to bear in her defeats. She does not pine in picturesque costumes and try to look like St. Cecelia, as Joan Crawford does when she ceases to dance and be her own vibrant self. We also have another so-called modern in Beatrice, a flapper with a "past." How she fondles and exhibits that "past"! No heroine of an old-time melodrama ever traded more upon what Beatrice tremulously calls "her indiscretion." Evidently it cost her nothing more than idle regrets, for her atonement is spent at parties with the people she likes best. She even marries the man she wants and enjoys some nice scenes when he. she, or both, harp on that past of hers. Do professed moderns take on like this? All that Beatrice needed was a black frock, a baby wrapped in a shawl and a snowstorm to remind me that she really belonged in "East Lynne." All these doings come to a machinemade climax when Anne, who is playing fast and loose with the millionaire, topples drunkenly on the landing