Life and Letters NOTHING is equal to the humor of life itself, as H. L. Mencken has suggested, and that Count Boni de Castellane should have written "How I Discovered America" (Boni & Liveright) exactly at this moment is one more notable instance in support of the statement. It is as if the Gould family had shrieked in chorus, "Oh, that mine adversary would write a book!" The Count says and in italics, too-that he was the best investment the Goulds ever made. If they had only let him keep the antique chairs and objets d'art which he rushed out and bought almost the moment he received his first check! Well, he figures it out in good round numbers what a fortune they would be worth to-day. At that, I am not saying he may not be right. Until I read these naïve confessions of Boni de Castellane's, painting the town red had been nothing to me but a figure of speech. If Boni didn't exactly paint Paris red after he married Anna Gould, he at least knew where to place footmen in scarlet. And his persistence in adding powdered wigs to the scarlet coats was one of the things that got him talked about. It was not his fault that he was born a century too late, so he went solemnly about his business of trying to increase the world's stock of beauty. Also expensively. And how he did struggle to make something out of Anna! An æsthete of the old French tradition with the late George Gould for a brother-in-law and backstop-you will really have to read "How I Discovered America" to grasp the bathos of the combination. Incidentally, it is just the kind of book for a guest-room table. THOSE who may have felt that May Sinclair was going a little bad on us with "A Cure of Souls" will rejoice over "Arnold Waterlow" (Macmillan), her latest novel. It is difficult for a reviewer to write calmly of Miss Sinclair, even with her own marvelous economy of expression for an inspiration. But to say that Arnold Waterlow is anything less than a triumph of characterization would not be telling the truth. Here we have the portrait of a A AFTER A Full Bowl LL attendance records were broken at the Yale Bowl last Saturday when between the hour the gates were opened and game time 77,000 pocket flasks poured through the turnstiles. When the gates were closed at 2:10 P. M., at least 50,000 more flasks were clamoring to get in. Officials estimate that the attendance represented 24,000 quarts of Scotch, 31,000 quarts of rye, 964 cases of gin, and a liberal proportion of miscellaneous alcoholic concoctions. If laid end to end, or neck to neck, as the case may be, the flasks would have gurgled the earth three times and wound up in William H. Anderson's cell at Sing Sing. New Haven police, aided by the state constabulary, handled the heavy traffic efficiently. No serious casualties were reported, though it was rumored that fourteen flasks were smashed beyond repair and more than one hundred slightly damaged in a jam at No. 14 Exit. This rumor could not be confirmed by college authorities or local officials at press time. T. F. Rolled up and tied up so careful, and dunked in the spiceladen vinegar, Give only a look at the salads; the shrimp and the tasty Kartoffel, Covered with mayonnaise dressing, like old Mr. Whittier's "Snowbound." While up in the window suspended, as our ancestors, olav hasholem, Hung in their kitchens before us long strings of dried apples and onions, There hang the rows of salami, and Blutwurst and juicy Bologny. And here is a great big roast turkey, just like on the magazine covers. Suppose we should buy off his bosom a couple nice slices of white meat And take them back home to the flat mit, and celebrate maybe Thanksgiving. Lines to the President R. Spillman. TO MORRIS FOR AUTO SUPPLIES GET LANSEED GO GO STOP USING INFERIOR LUBRICATING OIL SAY IT WITH SEMAPHORES Banley Irate Old Gentleman: DON'T TELL ME ABOUT THIS GAME, SIR. I PLAYED GOLF WHEN YOU WERE IN KNICKERBOCKERS. SHE Of course, I wouldn't trust her on oath. HE Or the overshoes in the goldfish bowl. Still, I think I'll tell her. He hasn't taken his eyes off her for one second. HE No, it's more likely the brother. He must be crazy about her. HE I'm sure he's the one. SHE If she'd only turn around a little. HE Yes, I'm certain it's the brother. SHE Heavens! It's Violet herself! How dull! I did think Harry had a little more adventure in him than Stealing Hollywood's Stuff "YOU understand," said the producer to the advertising director, "that this new production is merely a rehash of old stuff, nothing new in it, but we want to select a title that will make it seem new and startling. We can't call it a Super-Jewel production or a First National attraction because other companies have appropriated those terms." "Since it is a rehash of things already screened, not to say sifted," remarked the advertising director, "why not call it 'HOT DOG'?" "Too frivolous," said the producer. "As a selling title it is entirely out of the picture, as you might say. I want a serious name that will dramatize the product-something like 'barbecue,' which suggests people coming in a crowd and getting real nutriment." "I have it," said the ad man. "Name it 'LIEBNITZ'S SUPREME SUPER-BARBEQUE HASH'." And that is the name under which the new brand of hash is being marketed by Packer Liebnitz. C. L. Edson. to take his wife to the the- HE (swearing): On my word of atre. honor-as a gentleman. SHE: Oh, why did you have to go THE CURTAIN RISES Charles G. Shaw. and spoil it? "Dante's Inferno" M THE SILENT DRAMA "Madonna of the Streets" "THROUGH Hell with Dante on the NAZIMOVA has returned to the Road to Happiness"-that is the catch phrase used in the advertising copy prepared by William Fox's alert publicity men. There are also frequent references to the number of beautiful and comparatively undraped women who appear in the celluloid transcription of the Divine Comedy. "The Inferno," as we see it on the screen, is an effective picture; it is probably just about what Dante himself would have imagined if he had gone to Hollywood instead of to Hell. It shows us a papier-mâché Inferno, paved realistically with good intentions -and rather more alluring than otherwise. Thousands of Fox Sunshine girls are strewn about through the lower regions, lending support to the hopeful theory of a stingless death. The ideal musical accompaniment for such a film is the song of Irving Berlin's which ended: "They've got a couple of old re- Who make you go to bed at Pack up your sins and go to the devil And you'll never have to go to WHENEVER Mr. Fox bases a film production on a "world-famous classic of literature," he puts it in the form of a dream so that he may neutralize the effect of an unhappy ending. This device is used in "Dante's Inferno." A hard, heartless business man picks up a copy of the book, starts to read it and then drops off to sleep along about page four. This may not sound particularly complimentary to Dante, but he should worry. Not every author is lucky enough to sell the movie rights to his work. movies and involved herself in a sorry mess. Entitled "Madonna of the Streets," it deals in a feeble way with those seamy sides of life which the film producers always love to touch. But it doesn't make sense. It romps from one situation to another with no regard for dramatic construction or for reality. Nazimova herself is pretty good; Milton Sills, her leading man, is pretty bad. "Madonna of the Streets" is just terrible. "Hot Water" THERE has to be an occasional let down in the most high-strung career -and one can therefore forgive Harold Lloyd for the flaws that are to be observed in "Hot Water." It is, for the most part, hilariously funny-but it lacks the consistency, the evenness of pace, that distinguished every Lloyd comedy from "Grandma's Boy" to "Girl Shy." The usual inspiration is missing in the gags. I sincerely hope that Harold Lloyd isn't going back. There must be some excuse for enthusiasm on this page. More Suggestions THIS contribution to the Great American Movie is submitted by G. T. Smith, Jr., of the University of Virginia: An erring wife visits an unscrupulous bachelor in his apartment. When her husband knocks at the door, she hides in a closet-but neglects to leave her gloves, handbag or rubbers in the sitting room, and is not discovered. And this is from Mildred Duffield, of Chicago: The villain ostentatiously drops a lighted cigarette butt in the hay-barn where the girl is entrapped. It goes out, and there are no subsequent scenes of fire-engines dashing through the streets. And this from Mrs. Mark Sullivan: The hero is told by the doctor that he has but six months to live. He arranges all his affairs in preparation for death, spends his final days in the manner that appeals to him most, and then, at the end of the sixth month, he dies as predicted. R. E. Sherwood. |