World Film and Television Progress (1937-1938)

of New York business men on quite a large scale, and the moral seems to be that if you teach a man to use a gun he will simply keep on using it. — C. A. Lejeune, The Observer "^■r La Mort du Sphinx (Dr. Lewis Carls — French.) Ingrid Bigum. This film, adapted from M. Jean Cocteau's play, La Mort du Sphinx, is a very curious film which leaves at the end a large interrogation mark. Why was it ever produced? The one reasonable answer is that Miss Ingrid Bigum is given a chance to act, and act she does, but this once granted other subsidiary little question marks keep raising their inquisitive heads. If this film was to be made at all, why was it not made with a more severe intention and why was the story of Oedipus thrust almost into the background? Above all, why on earth was the matronly figure of a citizen of Thebes allowed to hold up the action for so long? Her acting was admirable, but it had nothing at all to do with the tragic story of Oedipus or of the intertwined mortal and immortal lives of the Sphinx. Mortally the Sphinx, as Miss Bigum shows her, is an impatient, pitiful person, longing for love and weary of killing, young, tender, almost adolescent. When she reveals herself to Oedipus as the Sphinx she is old, experienced, disillusioned in all except one thing — her need to be loved. In a long monologue, beautifully spoken and balanced, she pours out to him the long story of her life and practises and gives him the answer to the riddle which means death to the man who cannot answer it. At times The Sphinx is impressive but on the whole not impressive enough to justify the film. — The Times It was not long ago that Jean Cocteau made his debut as a film director before the more intellectual sections of London's movie fans with Le Sang d'un Poete. This film caused a minor stir. In some quarters it was dubbed surrealist, in others pronounced meaningless ; there was also a squeamish minority which departed from the auditorium with its handkerchiefs over its mouths. On the whole Le Sang d'un Poete was a piece of far-fetched good fun. But to seek undue profundity in its imagery would have been to take too seriously the trials and errors of a man whose trade was other than films. A translated film version of Cocteau's play La Mort du Sphinx has now appeared in England. Cocteau himself, it seems, had no direct contact with the production. The play was adapted by Stuart Gilbert (noted for his book on James Joyce) and directed by Lewis Carls, with music by Georges Auric. Except for the central figure of the Sphinx, played by Ingrid Bigum, the small cast is wholly English. The interest of La Mort du Sphinx lies, at least in part, in the smooth interweaving of contemporary reference with a classical theme. Its situations, especially when translated into terms of film, call for a modicum of flippancy and coarseness in their handling. They demand, in most cases, an approach closer to the spirit of music-hall than to that of Greek drama. It is therefore regrettable that the film should be so obviously governed by an enormous reverence for its original. It is permeated with a spirit of discipleship which tunes it to a false aesthetic pitch. Thus Stuart Gilbert's adaptation consists in little more than a mere removal of un-essential dialogue, while Lewis Carls' direction gives the appearance of being dictated by a consuming fear lest each of the remaining lines should pass without its due weight. Auric's music, which could have played a fundamental part in the dramatic construction of the film is confined to a few insignificant passages, mostly of a punctuative nature. The result is a pompous, stagey affair, full of the odour of sanctity and outrageouslv dull. There is no reason why this should have been so. The Cocteau play contains much of the stuff of imaginative movie and his writing is vivid, pointed, and at times racy. In addition his theme touches on one of the major stories of all time. Opportunities were not lacking, and the names of the production team should have been a guarantee that they would be taken. Or should they? The feeling lingers that the film represents an excursion into a foreign field of a group of intellectuals whose native media lie elsewhere. Maybe there is something in professionalism after all. Paris Commune (Gregory Roshal — Russian.) N. Plotnikov, A. Maximova, A. Abrikosov, V. Stanitzin. Paris Commune is a lacklustre, awkwardly directed and generally tedious piece of historical sugar-coating. With a transparent list to port and a patriotic fist conveniently clamped over one eye, the Soviet looks at the abortive insurrection in Paris in 1871, directly after the Franco-Prussian War, and pretends it was the idealistic precursor to the Red revolution. It is all glory for the Paris Commune and for those who died fighting for it on the barricades. And yet — although the filmmakers charitably ignore the debauchery, brutality and vandalism of the commune — it is unable to hide, even in this subjective treatment, inklings of the stupidity, ineptness and confusion of the revolution's leaders. To this extent it is an accurate picture of a bloody and worthless sixty-five days' war. Aside from our factual scruples, there remains the more cogent objection that Paris Commune is a singularly dispirited, over-attenuated and static motion picture. It emerges as the flat record of a revolution fought by soap-box orators and directed by misfits. None of the players deserves special mention, but its director, Gregory Roshal, does: he has much to learn. —Frank S. Nugent, The New York Times Mr. Flow (Robert Siodmak — French.) Edwige Feuillere, Fernand Gravey, Louis Jouvet. French crook drama is a screen rarity. I found this interesting partly on that account, but more because of the very attractive and intelligent young actress, Edwige Feuillere. There is a strong boudoir flavour to the complicated nonmoral pilot of a lady thief and a barrister who becomes entangled in every way. Some good Deauville scenes and fascinating acting by a clever cast are put over by a technique which I like chiefly because it has so little in common with either Hollywood or Denham. — P. L. Mannock, The Daily Herald Emil Jannings Der Herrscher Der Herrscher Weit Harlan — German.) Emil Jannings, Marianne Hoppe. Der Herrscher is a good, strong drama in which the German passion for accuracy and precise detail is used to good purpose except in the opening. This is a burial scene, in which the emotionalism is laid on with a trowel. Once this is over, the picture becomes intensely interesting. It reveals a psychologically correct building of character. Being of German origin, the story is unrelieved by those flashes of humour which British or American production would have given it. But its very grimness gives it a strength that becomes an additional quality. Here and there, an attempt to please Der Fuhrer is disclosed. The almighty eminence of the State and the good of the people above the good of the individual are emphasised, but not obnoxiously. One rather smiles. —Richard Haestier, The Star Jannings is a dominating steelworks magnate who is used to having his own way. He falls in love with his young secretary, proposes to her and rounds on his family when they insult her because they wanted his money. For the most part the film is a family row. by a set of quite unpleasant people, pictured with little regard to convincing characterisation and put there mainly to give Jannings the chance of building up to a powerful scene, as he has done many times in the past. He acts well, but the general lack of human values and the flood of dialogue prevent the picture from being really satisfying. — A. Jympson Harman. The Evening W> 27