Cliffhcmger

One April day in 1917, war-conscious Manhattanites at Broadway & 42nd Street gawked at a beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed damsel clad in an American flag, nonchalantly riding a steel girder to the top of a 20-story building under construction. Flinging a bundle of recruiting circulars to the spectators, the merry lady nonchalantly descended and cried: "I've done my bit! Now do yours!"

For patriotic Pearl White, this man-sized stunt was not even a good day's work. Rough-riding heroine of The Perils of Pauline, The Exploits of Elaine, other serial thrillers of the youthful U.S. cinema industry, she had weathered a thousand terrible fates. With daredevil Ruth Roland (Ruth of the Rockies, Love and the Law, etc.) she was co-queen of the U.S. sequel-cinema in the days when To Be Continued Next Week left an agonizing seven-day gap in the lives of thousands of silent-serial fans.

Pearl White and Ruth Roland are dead. But on the books of three U.S. cinemakers (Republic, Universal, Columbia) To Be Continued is still doing important business. Any one of these companies' dozen yearly serials (trade name: cliff hangers) is likely to gross a million dollars. The Lone Ranger, made three years ago for $325,000, grossed over $1,250,000--a better return than most feature pictures bring.

No less loyal than their forebears are today's cliffhanger fans. Most of them are U.S. school children, who demand of their heroes the same forthright Boy Scout qualities that ennobled the silent heroes of the serial's palmy days (1913-16): men who do not drink or smoke, fight only in self-defense or to prevent premeditated crime, always rescue heroines in time's nick.

Not since Pearl White's day has Hollywood produced another serial queen of her stature. The fans wanted sterner stuff than even Miss White could appropriately offer. But this week Republic was ready to offer another, 1941-style. She is beauteous Frances Gifford, a 22-year-old, blue-eyed brunette, somewhat scratched and bruised from two months of grappling with pythons, scrambling off sacrificial altars, evading avalanches and poison arrows for the 31-reel thriller Jungle Girl.

In buckskin shorts and a permanent wave, Heroine Gifford, who is an agile five-foot-six, 121 lb., sound of wind and limb, undergoes some rather strenuous perils as Nyoka, daughter of Dr. Meredith, an emi ent physician consigned to darkest Africa by the nefarious activities of his twin brother. Off to Africa goes the twin upon learning that his brother is ministering to a native tribe with a storehouse full of diamonds. There he teams up with Slick Latimer to kill the good doctor and replace him. His true identity and devious intentions eventually reveal themselves to Nyoka, who, with the aid of Aviator Jack Stanton and his pal, Curly, manages to turn the diamonds into safe U.S. dollars after assuring the natives that the cash will be used to establish a medical foundation to improve their health.

Before winning through (in 2,100 scenes), Heroine Gifford gets into and out of 15 of the dad-jamdest scrapes that the Republic script department could imagine.

In search of the key to the diamond cache, she tames a lion with her bare hands to prove to the Lion Men that she is their goddess. Her headdress slips, revealing her mortality, and she is put up for sacrifice. Saved, she sneaks into the treasure cove by a back entrance, tumbles into a torture pit and is showered with a deadly gas.

By dogged persistence the heroine at last finds the diamonds. While she transports gasoline (cleverly distilled from natural jungle oils) to Jack Stanton's plane (which will fly the diamonds to safety) in a grass basket suspended from a cable across a treacherous ravine, the basket's supports are shot away from the cable pulley. Undaunted, she grasps the pulley with her bare hands and completes the slide with her precious cargo.

A former cinema bit player, Frances Gifford agreed to tackle her new role after she was shown what tremendous audiences awaited her. Many a star (Jean Arthur, Janet Gaynor, etc.), she was reminded, had risen from the serials. Her fortitude has already begun to pay. Hollywood has named a drink after her. It is called "Jungle Girl" and bears the warning: "Two drinks and you'll think you're in the jungle. If you see Frances Gifford, you'll know you are."

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