The Night of Love (United Artists) (1927)

A Feature And Snappy Shorts IS A WIFE SAFE? “She Is Today,” Says Ronald Colman, “But Once Upon A Time-” By PAUL GRAY The moving picture producers have finally delved deep enough into his¬ tory to unearth facts and customs embarrassing even to a reporter. The Samuel Goldwyn lot, with its usual air of respectability, seemed no place in which to ferret out the truth of what I had to learn, but duty is duty. Ronald Colman, with a known background of intellectual fact and a reputation of having somewhere garnered an inexhaustible amount of lore, medieval and ancient, was nat¬ urally slated as the first victim to question. He shot an amused glance at the inquiring reporter. “Yes,” Colman assured, and his eyes twinkled a bit, “the women understood all that. They realized that everything belonged to the Duke first.” “You mean,” Mr. Colman was asked, “that sort of a law applied to marriage!” “Righto,” Ronald answered promptly, cudgeling the far recesses of his historic knowledge, “that’s why they called it the ‘right of the first night.’ That’s history.” There followed a thoughtful si¬ lence. Here was romance of an old order, yet new to this generation. Your interviewer was not wholly unprepared for an unusually in¬ triguing love story. He had been told that “The Night of Love,” Sam¬ uel Goldwyn’s latest cinema master¬ piece which features Ronald Col¬ man and Vilma Banky, and which is now showing at the. Theatre, was amazing in its gran¬ deur and decidedly different in its theme. But he had hardly expected what he had heard. Possibly it was embarrassment that halted the conversation tem¬ porarily. At any rate, it provided the time to gaze over the large area of Samuel Goldwyn’s studio at Cul¬ ver City. Lights—lights of different sizes, shapes and colors illuminated sec¬ tions of castles, banquet rooms and boudoirs, almost breath-taking in their magnificence. Draperies of silk, gorgeous coverings, hand- carved pieces. “No wonder this picture is cost¬ ing Samuel Goldwyn a fortune,” the interviewer said, resuming the con¬ versation with the handsome Ron¬ ald. “That’s one of the things that establishes Samuel Goldwyn as one of the greatest producers of either the stage or screen,” responded Col¬ man. “I mean the matter of ex¬ pense. He seeks reality and sin¬ cerity, regardless of whether its cost be a dollar or ten thousand dollars. As a matter of fact, I understand that Vilma wears one costume in this picture that cost Mr. Goldwyn nearly twelve thousand dollars.” When the writer saw Vilma Banky it was not difficult to realize that her costume must have cost plenty. To those tens of thousands who class themselves as admirers of Miss Banky let it be said that she is just as beautiful off the screen as on. In fact, this writer was so dazzled following his introduction that he could think of nothing to say to the charming star. Grasping for a thread upon which to hang a conversation was futile. There seemed nothing to be said that could be heard above the din that rang in the interviewer’s own ears. Uncertain, awkward, we turned for protection back to Ron¬ ald Colman as Miss Banky grace¬ fully moved off—but not as far off as we thought. An electrician looked up curiously from his work. A carpenter ceased his hammer¬ ing. Isn’t it funny how many people hear, and yet apparently do not hear, a movie interview. It was one of those lulls in which one’s voice seemed to ring out al¬ most to a shout. We heard ourselves again ask Mr. Colman as though a repetition of the question would insure a more definite answer. “What if the ‘right of the first night’ were a custom today?” I heard a little repressed scream behind me. Heavens, Miss Banky had certainly not gone far, but had heard my question. As I turned, “Oh,” said Miss Banky with surprise, mixed, per¬ haps, with a bit of shock. “It could not do. Society! The police! I think-” But Vilma did not complete what she thought. She allowed a bewil¬ dered look in her beautiful eyes to express what her lips might have wanted to say. Almost instantly George Fitz¬ maurice, director of “The Night of Love,” was talking. “Why take it' so seriously,” he smiled. ‘The reason we have movies is to picture the illusions of life. Of course such a thing, such a law, such a monumental blow to society, could and would not be accepted to¬ day—that’s why we have movies.” However, the interest of Ronald Colman was piqued. “I’ll tell you,” Ronald spoke up, grinning a bit, “if the ‘right of the first night’ was an accepted custom today, I believe most men would spend their time in battle. “Love is insanely jealous—I mean most love. The chances are that nine out of every ten men today would pursue the same course that Montero follows in ‘The Night of Love.’ “Remember,” Ronald continued, “Montero has just married his beau¬ tiful gypsy sweetheart. The elabo¬ rate wedding ceremony has come to an end. He is about to take this lovely bride to the home he has built for her. As he approaches their love nest, the Duke with armed followers tears the gypsy girl from him. The Duke has claimed his right. He tells Montero that he will return the bride the next day. “Picture something like that hap¬ pening today,” demanded Colman. “Imagine a red-blooded man in the place of Montero. What would he do?” “Does Vilma Banky play the part of the girl who is stolen from Mon¬ tero?” Colman was asked. “Oh, no! Vilma is the Princess Marie—a convent-reared aristocrat who is forced by her parents into HOW MUM CAN A MUMMY STAY? A mummy may be sufficient unto itself in Egypt—but in Hollywood it's a horse of another color! So thinks Laska Winter, young actress who plays an important role in George Fitzmaurice’s production for Samuel Goldwyn, “The Night of Love,” now playing at the . . Theater. Miss Winter, who essays the part of the gypsy bride in an opening sequence of the story, was called upon to be bound in “grave clothes” that is, wrapped in silken cloth that is unwound from her body during the wedding ceremonial of the gypsies. The cloth bound tightly about her body, allowing her no room for movement, gave her the appearance of a mummy. During most of three days she was forced to stay in this position, while hundreds of gypsies danced about her, chanting weird songs and interpreting weirder dances, in traditional rites of the gypsy marriage festival. She breathed a deep sigh of re¬ lief when it came time to unwind her from her grave clothes, and throw a shawl about her nude body. Miss Winter now has great sym¬ pathy for the mummies of Egypt. In Hollywood she prefers her own clothes. Ronald Colman and Vilma Banky are co-featured in this production. a loveless marriage with the same Duke who stole Montero’s bride.” And during this conversation, Di¬ rector George Fitzmaurice and sev¬ eral assistants had pressed closely into the little group that was dis¬ cussing the problems of a modern “right to the first night.” “Yet, despite their sufferings,” said Fitzmaurice, “those people bur¬ dened with that cruel custom, loved as modern man and maid love. They had the same thoughts, de¬ sires and jealousies, pan’t you fancy what was in the heart of a bride when she returned to her hus¬ band after a night of terror with one of the feudal lords who deigned to claim his right? Can you pic¬ ture the bitter hates that must have burned in the souls of people so afflicted?” The camera man was ready. In a moment Ronald and Vilma and Director George Fitzmaurice would be “shooting” another scene of “The Night of Love.” As the little group silently pon¬ dered over the picture that Fitz¬ maurice had painted in words, their attention was attracted to a lean, clear-eyed, rough-looking Westerner. He was a carpenter who had as¬ sisted in the building of one of the sets. Apparently he had heard most of the conversation without being noticed. “Well,” he drawled, “I ain’t seen the last half of this picture; but if somethin’ like that ever happens to any of my women kin folks, I’m gonna need all the lawyers in the United States—and they ain’t gonna save me from hangin’.” And as , the carpenter spoke he looked toward Montagu Love, who plays the part of the Duke in “The Night of Love,” and what a Duke he is, as patrons of the. who attend “The Night of Love” will readily agree. COULD YOU CARRY $50,000 GOLD? How many men does it take to carry $50,000 in gold? This was the question which dis¬ turbed George Fitzmaurice, director of “The Night of Love” for Samuel Goldwyn, which comes to. on.In the picture, Miss Vilma Banky, as the Princees Marie, was to bring as her marriage dowry to Montagu Love the sum of $50,- 000 in gold coin. The money was to be brought in a huge chest, and placed before the bridegroom at the wedding feast. But how many men were needed to carry this chest was the problem which confronted Mr. Fitzmaurice and his staff of assistants. The research department went to work to solve the mathematical dif¬ ficulty. It was found that one man could carry something less than $ 10 , 000 . Then by the process of reason it was discovered that if it took one man to carry somewhat less than $10,000, it would take at least six men to carry $50,000, plus two ad¬ ditional men to bear the weight of the iron chest. Thus, when Princess Marie, played by Vilma Banky, brings her mar¬ riage dowry to Montagu Love it will be shown that it takes eight stalwart men to deliver the gift. Ronald Colman is co-featured with Vilma Banky in “The Night of Love.” “OPEN THE DOOR.” JIOT SO EASY The job of manipulating the giant iron doors on “The Night of Love” set which moved slowly on great iron hinges, was more tnan man-sized— for it took two men every time a door was opened. When one of the principals in “The Night of Love” wished to go to another room in the castle and bid a servant attend him, no one lackey could do his bidding. It took at least three strong men, in multi-colored livery and braids, to swing a mere door open and permit entrance through. Director Fitz¬ maurice, always on the alert for realism, engaged a special “army” of extras to do nothing but open and shut doors. Even in the dungeon sequences where the Princess Marie (Vilma Banky) is held prisoner by her ruth¬ less husband, it took more than one jailer to attend the fair star. For every time the dungeon door, with its cruel iron bars, was moved a corps of husky men performed the feat. By the time the picture was con¬ cluded it was the consensus of opin¬ ion that any Spanish gallant of 400 years ago who returned home late after a spree was all out of luck. Without awakening the wife and at least four servants, he would never be able to open the front door and enter his ancestral mansion.