Screenland (Oct 1924–Apr 1925)

nality in the interpretation of this film would have maue it corking entertainment in spite of the triteness of the plot. However, it's the right sort of stuff for the youngsters— there's so little sex in an auto race, you know. MESSALINA — F. B. 0. Enrico Gauzzoni got by the immigration officers with this cinematic spectacle of friendly Roman countrymen. At that it looked to us like the whole Italian quota was exhausted in this ambitious production which Doasts a couple of regiments of Mussolonian extras and spear holders. An Italian tragedienne by the name of Giovanna Terribili is generally as disappointing as her impressive proper name would indicate. The rest is pretty sad stuff with a reflection here and there of the director's earlier brilliancy in Quo Vadis, which slipped through the Port of New York some ten or twelve years ago. Messalina just goes to show that those furrin' productions can't hold a Christmas candle to even the weaker sisters among the made-in-Amenca brand. It's worth seeing, though, just for the sake of comparison. TIGER THOMPSON — Hodkinson. It doesn't make any difference what they title these Harry Carey passing shows of the wide open spaces. Tiger Thompson would have been just as good if Hunt Stromberg had called it Red Mike from Bloody Gluch or Wolf McCarty's Leopard Gal of Snake River. It's as western as the cactus candy Fred Harvey sells on the Limited between Las Vegas and Hollywood. All of which is meant to convey the idea that Carey's Tiger Thompson is not so very much different from the other .45 calibre double-barrelled thrillers he used to make at Universal City. The virile he-man stuff is nicely balanced by some clever Stromberg comedy bits and the photographic effects of authentic western exteriors will be appreciated by folks who never get farther away from home than the end of the suburban trolley line. Marguerite Clayton is Harry's leading lady —and what a merry chase she leads him. But see it for yourself. FLYING FISTS — Henry Ginsberg. A new series of tworeel fisticuffs with champion Benny Leonard appearing in the hero role of Benny Lane. Leonard displays a surprising amount of screen ability and with his reputation for never getting his slick pompadour mussed, to say nothing of his camera-perfect proboscis, he makes a really acceptable movie sheik. The producers have managed to work in an honest-to-goodness scrap in every unit of the series and, as the roles opposite the champion are always^ filled by professional punch swappers, seeing Flying Fists is as good sport as a ringside seat at a Tex Rickard Milk Fund show. Sam Hellman, the Satevepost slang slinger, wrote the stories and the titles. If you can imagine George Ade, Will Rogers and H. C. Witwer sitting across a luncheon table from you, you might get some idea of the Hellman wit. More pictures like these and Benny Leonard will be the ranking attraction in pictures as well as punches. THE SPITFIRE — Murray Carrson. A movie with more plot than there were extra people in Robin Hood and more actual screen highlights than there were custard pies in a 1915 Chaplin special. Director Bill Cabanne gives us something here that is guaranteed Grade-A and thoroughly pasteurized. We recommend it as one of the few films you can't afford to pass up. RIDGEWAY OF MONTANA — Universal. Jumpin' Jack Hoxie in what would have been a tale of the open spaces if Clifford Smith hadn't been so economical with the spaces. Still Hoxie is more interesting than a lot of Montana landscape, anyhow. An adorable little flapper type who isn't given screen credit helps give this "western" a different twist, though at best it remains a picture for the-please-easies. Hard-boiled fans are urged to stay away for the management's sake. TRAFFIC IN HEARTS— C. B. C. Something they'll like down in the Gas House district. It's so morally clean, inspiring and so darn full of hokum that it'd make the toughest yegg toss away his brass knuckles and beat it for the first Y. M. C. A. and a Gideon Bible. Robert Frazer plays a clean, young political reformer who sets out to "get" the graft ring hell bent for matrimony — and he does. Inspirational stuff with lots of moral. BROADWAY OR BUST — Universal. All about a pair of long-horn wrasslers who come into a fortune because somebody discovered radium on their ranch. Hoot Gibson and his pal suddenly find themselves catapulted into the select circle of the nouveauj riche and set out on horseback to paint the Great White Way a brilliant shade of red. If you haven't seen too much of this sort of thing, you might like it. But you probably won't. WANDERING HUSBANDS — Hodkinson. Lila Lee and her equally celebrated husband, Jim Kirkwood, in what seems to be an inconsequential but nevertheless interest ing photoplay. There are only three players in the cast, the party of the third part being represented in the person of Mav^rite Livingston. She's put there to vamp poor Jim away from Lila. This screening ranks well up among the better program pictures of the year. THE SIXTH COMMANDMENT — Associated Exhibitors. Another fillum with a moral. It sermonizes, moralizes and sterilizes with friend William Faversham doing most of the dirty w|ork. Much excess footage in the preaching of this cinematic sermon gives the picture a tendency to drag. Too morbid to be entertaining. THE RECKLESS AGE— Universal. An obvious follow-up on Sporting Youth with Reginald Denny again taking all the honors. Reggie appears to be quite at home in a typical Wallie Reid role. With Ruth Dywer playing opposite him, they make a most attractive team. The story itself is too thin and wobbles dangerously in the biggest moments. Otherwise, it's passably good stuff. IN FAST COMPANY — Truart. Richard Talmadge in a zippy rah-rah yarn that should go big at Ann Arbor and in every other town with an I. C. S. sub-station. Some brand new ideas on how to stage a fast steppin' collegiate hi-jinks without bringing down the wjrath of the prexy — or the Mayor. This picture is one of the goodold-days variety and has oodles of pep from the word go. LOVE OF WOMEN — Selznick. Maybe Whitman Bennett doesn't make the worst pictures in the world but we don't know who else deserves the palm if he doesn't. This one is sufficient cause for Helene Chadwick to sue for damages to her reputation as an intelligent actress. It is one of those matrimonial triangles in which a little chee-ild gets sick and brings the erring couple back to mend their ways. And a little child shall — well, it's that kind of a picture. 51