Hollywood Openings

It is written in the Hollywood ritual that no evening is so sacred as the opening night of a potent picture. In soft purring motors come the stars through the bracing California evening. The blocks about the theatre are set with huge searchlights sweeping heaven. Fierce cordons of police force order in the crowds, thousands of common folk, many of whom have waited at vantage points since afternoon to see the gods descend from their chariots and pass nobly through the gates. Radio stations spread each new arrival's name across the miles of night. Stars cry their greeting through the microphone. Bewildered tourists from a saner world blink and are startled as they step into the white lobby light where the inevitable cameras click.

Finally the house is full. With ponderous trimmings the ceremonies start; the picture runs its petty pace; friends cheer friends; foes whisper obloquies. Then to the stage steps someone who is someone. He makes a speech. He summons to his side the stars of the particular pictures. They bow and blush. The audience cheers wildly. Some people get bored and go out. Soon everyone goes out. Outside the radio tells the world the stars are going out. More cheers. Cries of "good night."

Thus Hollywood, always in character, goes to the movies.

Be it said that some of the great inhabitants have tired of the super-splendor of these evenings and stay sternly at home. But even they could not be entirely unconscious of an opening at Sid Grauman's famed Chinese Theatre last fortnight. Mr. Grauman, conspiring with the Warner Brothers, whose picture he was showing, studded the hills with searchlights. Red, green, and yellow, they scanned the sky by scores. For miles and miles they traced the night with tidings that something stupendous was in progress. That something was:

Noah's Ark. Many and many a thousand that the Warners have amassed by beating their rivals to the screen with talking pictures (Vitaphone) they poured into this elephantine show. Perhaps they felt its worthlessness of story interest and sought to stun the public with its size.

They showed a rich American scorning war; later joining up. They showed him, by a misadventure, killing his buddy and feeling pretty badly about it. Cynics recalled a not dissimilar situation in Wings. They showed his loved one as a song and dance girl in an army theatre. They showed his loved one all but shot as a German spy, her salvation being his presence in the firing squad. Suddenly German shells dropped and the whole crew were tumbled into a nearby cellar. A convenient priest began to read from the Bible the story of Noah's Ark. By a series of titles it was prodded home that war is like the Flood. Then the picture suddenly dipped back several centuries and went into the story of that wide inundation.

At the same moment it went back several years in movie methods. The sheer mass of ancient spectacle, so popular in the faraway days of Intolerance and Cabiria, was brought to bear. Amid a lumbering and childish story of Noah and God and an infidel king and his god Jaghuth the picture reared an almost unbelievably massive ancient city. Presently the floods came and smashed down this city in shattering sequences. Colossal temples fell, oceans of water sloshed the infidels. Noah sailed serenely away amid his auks, yaks, armadilloes.

Back to the French cellar. The priest prophesied the flood of war would end war. A kiss for the boy and girl. Finis.

Cheaply written dialog was partly rescued by the fine voice of Paul McAllister, an impressive Noah. Dolores Costello was lovely in appearance, middling in voice. The war portions were shockingly weak; the flood scenes startlingly effective.

Interference. A second opening within the week was accomplished with less searchlights on the hills but more intelligent enjoyment in the theatre. Paramount produced their first all-talking picture. As befits that august organization they produced it with great care and eminent effect.

Chiefly important was the machinery. Shrewdly photographed, exactly synchronized, and cleanly reproduced, the players and their lines lived more vigorously than in any previous picture. When sounds came they were not squawks. They were words that one might listen to and believe.

The play itself failed partially to measure up to the mechanics. Distilled from the stage success of last season it told how a never-do-well poisoned his mistress because she was blackmailing the only woman ever he loved with whole heart. Never an important story it seemed some-what less effective on the screen than on the stage. It took a good while getting started, but was blessed with a formidable finale. It will not rank as rival to the good Manhattan plays; but it is sufficient to suggest that such rivals may some day arise in Hollywood.

Aside from the mechanics the actors mattered most. All were moderate movie favorites; all had been on the stage. Evelyn Brent and Clive Brook were excellent; William Powell the best. All managed their voices as though they were used to them and not, as many talking picture actors, as though they were hot mashed potatoes.