The New Pictures

Svengali (Warner). This is a vigorous example of John Barrymore's second or hokum manner. In contrast to his first or popular manner, in which the spectator's attention is directed to the beauty of his profile and his legs, the second manner (Moby Dick, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde) involves the creation of sinister atmosphere by means of makeup, pale rolling eyes, false whiskers, mouth pieces used for the distortion of the teeth, and stilts in his shoes to make him look taller. He is Svengali, the musical hypnotist of the Latin quarter, in a story that is Du Maurier's Trilby except that the character of Trilby (Marian Marsh) is played down and Svengali played up. Barrymore handles all the artifices of the acting trade with gusto and intelligence. He meets Trilby at the time when she has fallen in love with a charming English aristocrat and by his occult power charms her away from her true love so that he can make money exploiting her bell-like voice. He can hypnotize her at any distance, and one of the best shots in the picture suggests how his influence bores through the night. over the rooftops from his window, and into her mind. In an age in which hypnotism was discussed as the most important development of science, and in which any love story had pathos if it was laid in the Latin quarter and contained a titled Englishman in a leading part, Trilby was a masterpiece of popular appeal. For modern cinemaseers it is an interesting though somewhat gloomy curio, worth-while for John Barrymore's tricks. It is beautifully staged. Typical shot: Barrymore dying as he makes a last effort to hypnotize Trilby, while she, feeling his influence fail, goes flat on a high note of "Ben Bolt."

Ladies' Man (Paramount). Rupert Hughes got a fancy price for screen rights to his novel, serialized in Editor Ray Long's Cosmopolitan, but this little story might just as easily have been adapted from the drooling lyric of the current foxtrot, "Just a Gigolo." A few weeks' experience as a bond salesman was what made William Powell turn gig, and he did well for a while on the money received from pawning jewelry given him by admirers. He vacillated agreeably between Kay Francis, Olive Tell and Carole Lombard ; he had even fallen in love with Miss Francis and was threatening to go to work when fate overtook him in the manner which tradition prescribes for gigolos. The husband of a woman he had been comforting all winter came home one evening and threw him over the parapet of a penthouse. The scene in which he lies crushed to death on the pavement is the end of his life in Paramount pictures. From now on he will work for Warner and there are indications in Ladies' Man that the deal had already been completed and that the producers had lost interest in Powell--indications in the dialog, construction and directing of a carelessness rare in Paramount pictures, usually so exacting in the matter of craftsmanship. Crucial line, by Kay Francis, after the Ladies' Man has been killed and the fancy dress ball has gone on without him: "They can't take that away from me; he really loved me."

Tarnished Lady (Paramount). With a good or even an average piece of cinema tradegoods as her first vehicle, Tallulah Bankhead might have kept anyone from noticing the picture; but Tarnished Lady is so bad it keeps the audience from noticing Miss Bankhead. Her warm low-pitched voice and her pretty face and figure register well. There are even moments vhen, in spite of her terrific struggle with her material, it seems probable that she can act, though for proof the U. S. will have to wait for her next picture. Donald Ogden Stewart wrote this one, which seems, and in all likelihood is, a rejected draft of his famed Laughter. The framework of the two is identical--a young woman marries a rich man for his money and then, deciding she cannot stand it, goes back to an early sweetheart. But here apparently a production conference was called, the keynote of which was "Now, make it different. Not like Laughter." Miss Bankhead leaves her husband just when he has lost all his money; when she goes to her lover she finds him unfaithful to her. She struggles with poverty, bears a child, and decides that she loves her husband after all. Most inevitable scene: Clive Brook gazing fondly at the cot that contains his child.

Granddaughter of the late Senator H., daughter of Congressman William B., niece of incumbent Senator John H., Tallulah Bankhead inherited from her family a pungent rhetorical wit and an inclination to have people listen to her. After a short period of training at various convents, she went on the stage in Manhattan. Her reputation was just beginning to dawn when she left for England. She liked England and there was less competition there. Before long she was, to Londoners, the greatest U. S. actress. Bobbies had to give her an escort nightly from the stage door to her car. Because she was an American managers picked her out to play parts that had been hits on Broadway, The Green Hat, Let Us Be Gay, Her Cardboard Lover, They Knew What They Wanted. Before every premiere she buys herself an expensive present. "If the play's a flop I'm comforted; if it's a success I'll have celebrated." She likes champagne cocktails, smokes Gold Flake cigarets, says "on the films" instead of "on the screen," and in general has acquired more British than Alabama mannerisms and moral attitudes. This is her first U. S. picture.

Subway Express (Columbia). Murder, and the detection of the murderer, in a subway train full of passengers in its run between 14th and 145th Streets, Manhattan, was accomplished by the authors of this piece with such credibility and pace, bit-part humor and rapid shifting of suspicion that Subway Express had a successful Broadway run. It was a much better play than it is a picture, principally because the single setting, which gave the play its concentration, cheats the camera of its most vital effect, the ability to move in a flash of a second over all space and time.

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