Page:Screenland October 1923.djvu/55

SCREENLAND

showed any sort of progress. Griffith contributed two disastrous plays. One Exciting Night, a confused effort at thrill melodrama, and The White Rose, a hark back to the sob inducer of other days. If Griffith is to maintain his leadership of the American screen he must pause for time to set a sane perspective upon himself. Just now financial exigencies seem to rush him into one tawdry film effort after another. And the Griffith of 1923 doesn't seem to be the Griffith of five years ago, close to life. He is aloof and harried by circumstance.

Our list of the significant six directors would number Griffith, if only for his fine past contributions to the photoplay's progress, Erich Von Stroheim, Ernst Lubitsch, Mack Sennett, Rex Ingram and Charlie Chaplin.

Von Stroheim started Merry-Go-Round—but didn't finish it. Vet there was enough left in the finished film to give us a taste of this superb master of passion and intrigue, seen through sophisticated Continental eyes. We shall await his film version of Frank Morris' McTeague with high interest.

Lubitsch has been directing Mary Pickford in The Street Singer, as yet unrevealed to the public. Will he keep his fine command of himself in America? We shall see.

if you will but we honestly think Mack Sennett is underestimated. No one in all screendom has made greater contributions to the screen than Sennett. He has developed the one branch of the screen which, if we may indulge in a pun, stands upon its own legs. It isn't an imitation of the stage, literature or anything else. It is in the production of film farce that the silversheet has alone achieved individuality.

Chaplin is the genius of this field, of course. And his The Pilgrim was a rare thing of comedy. Yet Chaplin is more than a maker of laughs. His first serious drama, A Woman of Paris, on which he has been working for months, ought to be highly significant.

Rex Ingram lapsed with his directorial orgy, Trifling Women, and then made a step ahead with his production of John Russell's Where the Pavement Ends. This last was not only a sympathetic camera drama—but it enmeshed the strange lure of the South Seas. That alone was a triumph.

WONG AND CHARLES RAY DID FINE BITS

Niblo did two very excellent photoplays, his visualization of Ibanez's story of the bull ring, Blood and Sand, and James Forbes' study of a certain phase of American life, The Famous Mrs. Fair. Two widely different things—and yet both well done. We wouldn't be surprised if some of the praise for Blood and Sand rightly belongs to June Mathis, who so materially aided the rise of Rex Ingram, but, even so, Niblo deserves his superlatives. Blood and Sand had color and swiftly unswerving movement in telling its story of the peasant lad who became the matador idol of all Spain.

The other directorial leaders weren't so successful. Cecil De Mille seems to be steadily losing his grip. His Adam's Rib was an awful thing of its kind. Marshall Neilan doesn't take his work seriously. He is losing because he doesn't care. Allan Dwan seems to have been more injured by Robin Hood than anything else. His efforts since have been engulfed in massive sets. King Vidor, once so promising, seemed to hark back to his ideals with Peg O' My Heart but to slip again with Three Wise Fools. Hobart Henley revealed flashes at Universal during the year. Under difficulties, too, we suspect. John Robertson has temporarily linked his artistic fortunes with Richard Barthelmess. Their The Bright Shawl had charm, if little virility, but their The Fighting Blade, a story of Cromwellian days not yet released, has both. Herbert Brenon has been disclosing his fine ability, even with inadequate materials, at Famous Players. Maybe his The Spanish Dancer, with Pola Negri, will give him his opportunity.

has been a shrinkage of stars all along the line. The meteoric rise and legal eclipse of Rodolph Valentino was the big histrionic event of the year. Valentino proved that he was a fine actor with his matador in Blood and Sand, and gave the part color, passion and a breathless touch of brutality. It was a stark and palpitating performance.

The biggest advance of the year was made by Harold Lloyd. There is no bigger box