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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 3, Issue 12 (April 1, 1929)

An Amusing Description

An Amusing Description

The Piccadilly Theatre—tucked away in that narrow street dominated by the huge mass of the Regent Palace Hotel—is showing a complete programme of talking films. Last night I had my first experience of “seehearing” —if one may coin such a word. The programme was divided into two parts, the first part being a sort of acclimatizing process—like going slowly in for a swim from the feet upwards. The system is the “Vitaphone,” which, I understand, makes a disc record synchronize with the picture. At any rate the familiar schh - h - h— was plainly audible.

At Maidstone Park, Upper Hutt. Maintenance Branch team, winners of the Tug-of-War, at Railway Picnic, 1929.

At Maidstone Park, Upper Hutt.
Maintenance Branch team, winners of the Tug-of-War, at Railway Picnic, 1929.

The first item consisted of a film of a number of young women, with very shapely extremities, blowing a fanfare of trumpets. This was perfectly meaningless, and rather noisy. However, it showed that the apparatus was working all right. One thing did rather surprise me, and that was, that the trumpets did not sound anything like as “brassy” as one would have expected. They were sort of muffled, as though the advice to “put a sock in it” had been literally carried out.

The first film was followed by a picture of an orchestra in full blast, and showed the perfection of the synchronization of movement and sound. Here again the brass was pleasantly muffled, while the strings and wood-winds were mellow and full of colour. After this Mr. Charles Hackett sang, “Questa o quella,” followed by “La Donna e mobile” from Rigoletto. These were both good, well photographed and as resonant as a first class gramophone. Here one could begin to see the technique of the “Talkies,” or rather, the effort made in trying to make the performers appear real.

Living, as we do, in three dimensions, and also possessing the faculty of perspective vision, it is obviously impossible to make anything appear real in only two dimensions. The illusion of a third dimension, therefore, can only be suggested by vivid contrast between the moving figure and the background. This was done—rather crudely, I thought—by exaggerating the animation of the performer, and dressing him, or her, in a costume that tended to focus the eye. In fact, if the performer was singing, talking, laughing, screaming, or playing a portable instrument, he or she did sing, talk, laugh, scream, or play with a vehemence that didn't let you forget it—if your eyesight was all right.

The next item was a gent with a mandolin. He had jet black hair that positively glittered with oil. He certainly could produce every variety of sound from the most delicate “plonk” with his thumb, to a crashing chord-like tripping over a harp. Following this came a very animated young woman who sang with great vigour. Unfortunately she gesticulated to such an extent in the “close-ups” that her hands appeared, on the screen, to be about a foot and a half long.

The next item was a little play in which not more than two people appeared together at any one time. (We were now in, up to about the middle.) The play—as a play—was excellent. It was short and snappy, human without being mushy, no sob-stuff, humorous and ended up page 37 cleanly with a crack, like snapping a bit of glass.

The Vitaphone being a triumph of “God's own country,” naturally employs “God's own actors,” talking “God's own ‘slanguage.'” In an ordinary film this does not worry you, because when you see the performers doing a lot of mouthing you don't bother about what they're saying, and if you can't grasp the story from the action the screen usually helps in clear print, as, for example:

“The roseate gleam of early dawn lit the white mantle of the snows upon the mountain top, and Angela knew that her night of trail was o'er,'” or “Say kid, you'd better put crape in your hair; your brain's dead.”

On The Western Side Of The Southern Alps. (Photo. J. McAllister) The Greymouth-Christchurch Express.

On The Western Side Of The Southern Alps.
(Photo. J. McAllister)
The Greymouth-Christchurch Express.

And you know exactly where you are.

Again, with the ordinary film, if you only just go in for four penn'orth of hot hands you can shut your eyes, and everything's dead! Conversely, if you've lost the drums of both ears, but have reasonable eye-sight, you can have a very jolly evening. Not so with the “Talkies.” If you suddenly shut both eyes, the voice that you had quite persuaded yourself was coming from the mouth you were watching, sounds as if it was under your chair. And if you put your fingers in your ears you can't follow anything. This makes the show rather tiring, as you have to keep two senses screwed up and working the whole time. For even with the two characters speaking alternately, you can't sense which one it is without concentrating. Mind you, the voices are loud—in proportion to the speakers, who appear about eight feet high—and an eight-foot American bass or baritone twang is some sound; believe me, kid.

This leads to another problem. A pretty face hasn't always a pretty voice (I am thinking of peacocks in the monsoon). So if the “Talkies” become really popular. Britishers should score.

The first half of the programme finished up with Martinelli—the great Italian dramatic tenor—singing “Vesti la guibba” from Pagliacci. This was magnificent, and when he ceased and bowed to the audience there was a frenzy of clapping, fair proof that the crowd was carried away.

The second half of the programme consisted of the first all-talking film to be screened—“The Terror,” by Edgar Wallace. As a film I thought it was sheer “tripe.” As a novelty it was interesting.

I won't bore you with a description of the plot, which was of the lonely-inn-full-of-secret-passages - and - underground - vaults - the - size - of - St. Paul's - complete - with - organ page 38 (played periodically by the “Terror” in a monk's vestments and shiny black indiarubber gloves) innocent - virgin - spot - the - “Terror” - detectives - plus - silly - ass - alias - Captain - Ferdinand - Fane (who, of course, marries the virgin) - Scotland - Yard - murders - and - buried - treasure - variety.

The drop curtain was of black velvet with a sort of illuminated white horror. Very effective—and it didn't speak, thank goodness!

The film starts with a gent, in evening dress, cloak and mask, who “talks” in a deep American bass voice—all that dreadful piffle about: “This is the first all-talking film in the world. Produced by Warner Brothers,” photographed by some-one-else, directed by so-and-so, scenario by Flapdoodle, and all that heartbreaking stuff that you can miss—in an ordinary picture—by shutting your eyes.

The second shock was seeing a close-up of the outside of a prison with the following on a brass plate:—Governor of His Majesty's Prison, London (England).

As I said before, the story is “tripe”—but some of the noises are excellent.

Screams (there was a lot of screaming) were first class, the film showing you one of those “very close-ups,” where the face rushed into the camera, all quivering Also when Ferdinand comes in with a bag of golf clubs which rattle in a most realistic manner. Here again—though we were now right under, head and all —the effort of straining the ears for the words and the search for the speaker was most tiring.

In The Marlborough Sounds. S.S. “Tamahine” unloading at Picton Wharf.

In The Marlborough Sounds.
S.S. “Tamahine” unloading at Picton Wharf.

As a novelty it was a good show, and may find a permanent place in the amusements of the public. However, I always like to feel that the kinema is the deaf man's kinema, and should remain as such. If I want to hear people talk, then give me real flesh and blood, not a something in two dimensions, with a voice that comes at you as though reflected from a flat surface.