Screenland (Apr-Sep 1924)

Lionel Barrymore Takes Acting Honors story by Robert W. Chambers has for its bloody background the villainies of Captain Walter Butler and the Indian raids in the northern grain region. We follow the fortunes of the girl, her father, a Tory converted to the fight for freedom, and her lover, a brave youngster who performs as many deeds of daring as a serial hero. There are moments of suspense when the spectators kid themselves into believing that the outcome is doubtful, when everybody who has ever seen a Griffith picture knows to the minute when the rescuing forces are due to dash up. The gel, ha, ha, is enabled to flutter at Washington's inaugural address, which provides the conclusion. It's a worthy effort and unlike most things like that it has its bright moments. Griffith's naivete is once again apparent. He is ever the romancer; the genial weaver of fairy tales that never could happen. His fanciful ramblings include an orgy conducted along the usual Griffith lines. When the loathsome Captain Hare, grimaced, not acted, by Louis Wolheim, calls for the camp women, in trips as beautiful a bevy of cuties as you could wish to see — well-groomed, dainty creatures who look as if they had just dashed out of their Park Avenue apartments to look at those quaint Indians. . For me, Lionel Barrymore as Battling Butler is the suavest and most satisfying screen villain of the fiscal year. The Barrymore boys always uplift the screen and they are doing very well this month. (See "Beau Brummel.") Lionel's bad end, a fall face-downward into the mud, taught him, I hear, by a Hippodrome clown, is as pretty a flop as a camera ever caught. Neil Hamilton's good looks are against him but if he continues to contribute the sincerity he shows here he may in time live down his profile. As a Revolutionary knight he does not give an imitation of Richard Barthelmess. He doesn't have to. Charles Mack is hardly my idea of a studio Salvini so his omnipresent dimple almost spoiled my patriotic evening. Riley Hatch's Tammany Indian was as imposing as could be expected. Erville Anderson and Frank McGlynn, Jr. stand out. Carol Dempster, always graceful, is a little lady every minute. She's so well behaved. But she's decorative and she doesn't flutter — much. "Glass" backgrounds are used, and often. They may have been absolutely necessary but they weren't heard of at the time of Intolerance. The first night of America was the occasion for tremendous applause at every scene of any consequence at all. A little love scene — applause. A close-up of Miss Dempster — more applause. A glimpse of Washington — cheers. But the midnight ride of Paul Revere deserved the huzzas. Q. Marion Davies acquires, in Yolanda, a childlike elusiveness often reminiscent of Mary Pickford. QThe Month's Four Best Performances Yankee Consul Thoroughly Enjoyable 0[ John Barrymore in Bean Brummel (\Holbrook Blinn in Yolanda (\Douglas MacLean in Yankee Consul QJLionel Barrymore in America Y» ou'll have the time of your life at The Yankee Consul. Everybody, from the director and Douglas MacLean to the theater ushers, enjoyed themselves. I caught an usher chuckling. Proof. Frankly farce, its plot is so old-fashioned it wheezes. There may be a few people alive today who saw it as a musical comedy but if there are they don't brag. But it bounds along with all the speed of a plucky flivver. Just a movie, and proud of it. This is how it runs. Another one of those young men with an obese bankroll is the victim of a practical joke designed to show him he is still alive. The bright ones out front are in on it and have a lovely time nudging one another and laughing at the goat. He obliges by participating in some lively South American adventures. If you're one of those who take your humor seriously you will probably roll right out of your seat and down the aisle at the finish. Douglas MacLean has made so many darned ?ood comedies I wonder why he's not fussed about. He has imported to the screen the finished technique of the expert stage farceur. He's given me more legitimate laughs than any other screen actor except Chaplin. So I a m convinced he is a more accomplished comedian than Harold Lloyd. What? Well, we all have a right to our own opinions, haven't we? Patsy Ruth Miller is present, too, the little cut-up. She conducts herself in a manner worthy of the finest traditions of Our Club. Perhaps I had better admit that I can't be fair to our Patsy Ruth. You may think she gives a great performance. I don't. Beau Brummel an Almost Perfect Motion Picture IB)eau Brummel is sheer romance. It's a costume picture without a single battle except one fought over a lady. There's a king in it but not one conference with responsible royalty grouped about a carved table in crested chairs. It portrays the private life of the prince who became George III — odd, how he has changed when you meet him in America — and of another George, Mr. Brummel, who becomes the royal favorite and arbiter of manners, fashions and morals; and of various ladies and gentlemen who are involved in the highly unimportant social events of the day. There is no historical significance and no world crisis, so it may not be a costume picture after all. Beau Brummel has a strange disregard for film formula. Its romance is not of the moonlight-garden-pierced-hearts-on-birch-trees variety. Its drama is not physical. It's the romance of a man's life — a man who could never, by any stretch of the imagination, come up to the standards set for screen heroes. That's why I prefer it to other productions more extensively advertised and containing stronger moral lessons. The emotions of one man or one woman can be just as hair-raising or as soul-stirring as a chariot race in five colors. There are in Beau Brummel three of the most poignant scenes I have ever watched. The gradual decay of a splendid personage is movingly illustrated; and there are times when I wanted to break down and have a good, old-fashioned cry. 42