Photoplay/Volume 36/Issue 4/Brickbats and Bouquets

JUDGING from the month's mail, talkies are ceasing to be a nine days' wonder, and interest in their novelty has been superseded by critical analysis of their entertainment value.

There are conflicting opinions concerning the necessity for precise diction and carefully trained speaking voices. The majority, however, seem to feel that since the screen will henceforth influence the speech of so many people, as it has already so powerfully influenced their modes and manners, it is necessary that it preserve the finest traditions of our colorful American language.

There have been many letters from parents, deploring the trend toward sophisticated dialogue and situations and the portrayal of underworld scenes and characters. There have also been some pleas for the good, old-fashioned happy ending, instead of the sometimes more true to life dénouement.

Address your letters to Brickbats and Bouquets, Photoplay, 221 West 57th Street, New York City. Those who make pictures, those who act in them, and those who comprise the photoplay's vast audience, may find your opinions interesting and your suggestions helpful.

Timidity has always been my stumbling block. Even in the old schooldays, years and years ago, I had a special button on my coat which I twisted and turned while I recited. When one day some prankful children cut it from my coat I stood, blushing and stammering before the schoolroom, unable to voice a coherent word.

Time partially crippled this fear-god, but still, at most unwanted times, his head crops over the brim of my consciousness and I suffer again the ignoble pain of an indefinable terror. But experience has helped me to forge a sword to banish this demon. When in a crowd of any type, temporarily at a loss to get my bearings, I deftly turn the conversation to the movies and, presto, the light is shifted from me and my words to the opinions of everyone present on the shadow stage and its stars.

Individuals are forgotten, and the conversation is immediately a disputed conglomeration of likes and dislikes. Sometimes I shudder at the antagonism I have raised, in my self-preservation, but I am thankful that the motion picture gives me power to banish this terror that has always haunted my life.

Surely a force great enough to enter into the consciousness of all the world as acutely as the movies do, cannot be decried. They are the world's common ground. They level all classes, and on them all men meet as equals.

Just another letter about the talkies, and this one in praise of that sound invention that has brought joy and life to those unfortunate folk―the blind.

I am a member of the Syracuse Charity League, an organization whose main work is helping the Lighthouse―an institution for the blind. The other day we learned from the director of the Lighthouse that the talkies have been wonderful in helping and encouraging those sightless people.

These men and women living in the world of darkness have some friend read the synopsis of a picture, so they are acquainted with plot and characters, and then they go to the theater. Once there, knowing the story of the picture and hearing the screen sounds, music and voices, they let their minds run riot, and who knows but that in the vivid land of imagination they produce as fine or finer pictures than the ones we more fortunate folk can see with our physical eyes?

Although talkies have never been a favorite of mine, when I know they are assisting a work in which I'm so interested I cannot help but express my appreciation.

Will someone please tell the screen people that all this agitation about learning to talk is the bunk? For an English drawing-room comedy we need modulated inflections and Oxford accents, maybe. But who the heck said we need E.d.r. comedy?

The great mass of moviegoers speak the American language, with the "r's" where they belong and consonants slurred. Precise diction is high-hat to us, and nothing will more surely and more quickly alienate our affections. For one college professor who walks out in disgust when the hero says "bin" and "constitooshun" a thousand flappers will seek a new suppressed desire when the old one pulls, "Chawmed, I assuah you."

Oh, there are exceptions, of course. We expect characterization. I'm talking about "straight" actors, playing modern Americans. These people can talk, can't they? It's talk―natural, every day human voices we want to hear, not a stilted, ironed-out parroting of some self-styled expert. Let our actors do it their own way―the voices that have been good enough for them all their lives are plenty good enough for us. We're not worrying if their enunciation wouldn't pass muster at Harvard―neither would ours.

Tell them this from all of us. "Quit worrying! We've loved you silent and we'll love you speaking if you'll just go ahead and be yourself!"

Now that the talkies have become an American institution. I suggest that a few more restrictions be placed on the voice. If an actress has an asset of personal attractiveness, let her not have the liability of an uncultivated and uncultured voice. Beauty was able to hide much in the silent drama, but not so with the talkies. The star's voice and manner of speaking should be carefully analyzed, so that the ​public will hear only a well modulated, emotional voice.

I have in mind one talkie in which a very well known actress was starred, and I must confess that the slang, the careless manner of speaking, and the lapses from good English caused me to frame a few unpleasant epithets. It left me with a bad impression.

While reading over the letters in your department, I noticed that L. J. N., from Tulsa, Okla., stated that Lon Chaney may be "the man of a thousand faces," but with talkies he would have only one voice.

If he had only one voice, that would not make him lose his appeal. He could speak with an accent, lisp, or in a sing-song way. He could even have other men (and perhaps women) voice-double for him. That would give him more than one voice. There, L. J. N., you see he would be the man of more than one voice.

But before he tries any of those, I sincerely hope he speaks via the talkies with his natural voice. Lon Chaney is my favorite actor and it would be the thrill of thrills to hear his voice. I'm for talkies―especially when they bring me his voice―WHEN.

Give us more and more of Lon Chaney―the actor of actors.

I want to thank you for the beautiful article, "The Butterfly Man and the Little Clown," in the July Photoplay. It is the most human and sympathetic article that has appeared in your magazine in a long time.

I have always loved Mabel Normand, and wondered why none of the film magazines mentioned her serious illness. I'm so glad to know that Adela Rogers St. Johns and Photoplay have not forgotten my beloved Mabel. Bless her heart! I am praying for her recovery, and also that Lew Cody may be restored to health.

Part talkies, suddenly switching from voice to sub-title, are absurd. But I'm for the evolved product! The producers have shown commendable discretion in giving voice to the deserving; in putting over Edward Everett Horton's comedies and others, so much more amusing than slapstick―to an adult.

But, alas, they are not so discriminating as one might wish, in bestowing vision on some entertainers whose happy medium was, and ever should be, the radio. I refer to jazz singers whose talent is a jewel in crude setting; to male quartets whose rendering of "Mandalay" and "Asleep in the Deep" is a joy when the muscular contortions and distortions requisite to a soulful rendition are charitably lost in broadcasting, so that one may enjoy the song with no conflicting urge to submerge the singer.

But when the talkies indiscreetly present close-ups of the jazz caverns with dental stalagmites and stalactites, I feel like a Jonah and long for a dial with which to turn off the weird, offending vision of the "wail." I believe there ​are others, too, whose tortured eyes prefer not to witness the travail of "a little song out of a great pain," as the Germans say.

Another score for Photoplay. That was a great article, "Home Rules for Hollywood Flappers." If only all girls could read it, especially those who think it smart to smoke, drink, and stay out all hours of the night, and think nothing whatever of the opinions of their parents.

I am just a flapper myself and believe in having good times, but not to be unreasonable. Some girls, boys too, are always quoting what Hollywood would do. They seen to think the stars' real life is like the characters they portray on the screen.

That article was as good as any lecture, and I am glad it showed the real life of the coming young flapper stars. We love them all and are watching them closely. I still think more of Hollywood than ever; and those who are always talking against Hollywood―well, I will have another good argument for them.

Alas, what is becoming of our good old-fashioned movies? Is there a producer who wants to make a gold mine? Simply advertise that his theaters give only the silent―no talkies.

Many of my friends deplore the passing of the silent movie, where one's eyes brought the picture and description to one in silent, restful enjoyment. Now one has to elongate one's ears to unravel what is being said by voices that are anything but pleasant. The canned music, which has taken the place of the organ and orchestra, is extremely annoying to me, and I am sure to all people of a certain refinement of taste.

Producers, please let us have more of the golden silence and less of the canned noise, and may we see the revival of such glorious pictures as "The Volga Boatman," "Scaramouche," and Resurrection."

A big bouquet for Photoplayu, which I read every month.

I have just seen one of the greatest individual performances of several years through picture-going. I would like to make this a tribute to a woman whose film appearances have usually left me notoriously unmoved.

In "Coquette," Mary Pickford gives a portrayal which I shall place among my great theater moments. It will remain in my memory along with Emil Jannings' "The Patriot," Belle Bennett's "Stella Dallas," and Bessie Love's immortal Hank of "The Broadway Melody."

Six years ago I was living in Paris, and my only desire was to see and hear Maurice Chevalier, who was for a long time the idol of that capital. But my modest situation and earnings did not permit me to buy a theater ticket, so I came to the United States without seeing the greatest entertainer of France.

Last week I went to the United Artists Theater to see him in "Innocents of Paris." Of course I had seen his photograph a thousand times; I knew the history of his life; I had an idea of how he looked―but what a thrill when I heard his voice!

Thanks to the movies and to the talkies. I owe them one of the happiest moments of my life.