Word: sherwoods
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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PERHAPS WOMEN-Sherwood Anderson -Liveright...
...simplifier is hard. Simplicist Sherwood Anderson has been puzzling his head for years over the U. S. scene. In short stories, novels and autobiography he has struggled to focus what he sees into genuine art; occasionally he has succeeded. Lately he has taken to visiting factories, watching with his trou bled stare the unselfconscious machines, the unquestioning workers. Perhaps Women, a fragmentary notebook, is the result of these brooding visitations. Not the arguable art of economics but human beings, their daft ways, their queer needs, are what fascinate Sherwood Ander son. What Anderson thinks is wrong with...
...searchlights. The soldier sets off for the front. The girl, by lighting a cigaret, has herself destroyed by a bomb. Director James Whale, who made a fine picture of Journey's End, was faced by a harder job in Waterloo Bridge. The stage play by Robert Emmet Sherwood lent itself superbly to the manufacture of a third-rate cinematic tearjerker. Director Whale, perceiving that its sentimentalities would be more effective if they were subdued, disguised them carefully and was terse in scenes which might have been heavily dramatic. Director Whale is sup posed to be the quietest megaphone artist...
...Author. In the days when Chicago was having a literary renaissance Ben Hecht was one of the better-known in a group that included Sherwood Anderson, Theodore Dreiser, Carl Sandburg, Edgar Lee Masters. Called variously iconoclast, intellectual mountebank, "in-sincere fiddler," "Pagliacci of the Fire Escape," Hecht was famed for his conversation; "his subtle innuendoes, his philosophical observations, his penetrating irony, his vehement indignation, his gentle persuasiveness, his dubious facts." Once a collaborator with Maxwell Bodenheim, Hecht soon quarreled with him: the quarrel is still going on.* Mustachioed, with rumpled hair, pouchy eyes, Ben Hecht looks like what...
...autochthonous American author," she is most conveniently classified by negatives. Says the same critic: "The King Charles's head of psychoanalysis and experiment in genre does not keep continually turning up in her books as they do [sic] in those rather Mr. Dick-like compositions of Mr. Sherwood Anderson for instance." Unlike Sinclair Lewis, she does not bite her country's hand; unlike Edith Wharton (whose example influenced her early work) she casts no nostalgic backward glances toward Europe; unlike Ernest Hemingway, she carries no gnawing fox in her devoted bosom. Her simple, colloquial language obeys the canon...