The New Pictures

The Marriage Whirl. Corinne Griffith has, taken so many thousands on the barb of her attraction that it is doubtless idle to intimate that this adventure is one of the worst of photoplays. It is a story of the younger generation, married and very fond of gin. Great parties in expensive country houses and great scowls on the faces of the stern fathers. Nita Naldi, slimmer these days, is very wicked.

Marry Me. The vogue of the light comedy is assuming permanent proportions. Florence Vidor is involved in this one which tells the tale of a rural maiden engaged to one John Smith. She writes her acceptance on an egg shell which is delivered to the wrong John Smith in a distant city. The latter is interested in matrimony but more particularly in proving, through the lady, the unconscionable period which a cold storage company had kept the egg.

The Woman Hater. Another one that you should arrange to miss. The great actress, toast of Paris (French toast), comes to the U. S. About to marry a very rich young man, she is interrupted by an elder friend of that hopeful's distracted family. Elder friend becomes enamored for himself.

The Lucky Devil. In the days of Wallace Reid, they had a habit of putting him in a racing automobile whenever ideas dried up. The people went home happy. Applying this same formula to the mildly similar Richard Dix, one finds that human nature still reacts feverishly.

Night Life of New York. Dorothy Gish, Rod LaRocque and Ernest Torrence are no trivial trio to begin with, and their current fable gives good opportunity. It is another light comedy, the tale of a Western youth cast loose along Broadway with adequate funds. It brings in, by picture and by name, all the actual night clubs of the district, a comely telephone operator, a father who fails to impress upon his son the ultimate delights of the domestic fireside.

Pretty Ladies. Another bit of accuracy is here dealt round on the general subject of Broadway. The Follies, with Will Rogers, Eddie Cantor, Ann Pennington, Gallagher and Shean, and even Mr. Ziegfeld adequately included, is the subject. It seems that the low-comedy actress had never had a lover. It was the trap drummer that finally succumbed. They were very happy until the luxurious prima donna leered her way into their lives. Then a strange ending, so swift and so sincere as to be almost out of place.