Word: sorrowingly
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Sensitive and excellent direction by E. A. Dupont, of Variety fame, titling in the manner of the early Griffith period, photography that wraps around Vienna a mist of adventure and half-remembered sorrow-these are the assets of Love Me and the World Is Mine. Its fault is too much facial contortion from pretty Mary Philbin and stalwart Norman Kerry, who otherwise adequately play the leads...
...must help war cripples to happiness she lives with them. Dr. Ned Darrell, unconsciously in love with her, arranges to have her marry Sam Evans, genial weakling, to afford her anchorage. Not loving Sam she consents, thinking (still the martyr) she can beautify his life and ease her own sorrow with babies...
Buck Privates. Lya de Putti, who, with Emil Jannings, was seen in Variety, whirling in dizzy arcs on the trapezes of love and sorrow, now plays a faintly comic role in a rather foolish U. S. soldier-boy cinema. A demure, unprepossessing pacifist, wearing a huge head of false hair, she falls in love with a boisterous buck private named John Smith. Pranks and jollities slide from gentle flippancy to hurly-burly burlesque. At the last, everybody begins to run around, faster and faster, taking spills and turning somersaults. Even Lya de Putti was panting at the finish, as were...
...drove their cattle along the roads. The moors stretched out around the village of Upper Hampton where he lived; at night the wind blew a mist across them, muffling soft sounds, making a dog's voice, searching along some far hedgerow, an obscure dangerous signal, a portent of sorrow. The quiet tides of the country, the slow changes of the land and its people, were a solemn whisper always ringing in his ears like the sea's slow music echoing in a shell. It is easy to believe the legends of Hardy which picture him as he grew...
...thought. In his verse† he states more succinctly, more bitterly the angry, scornful, rebellion with which he regarded the dismal riddle of existence. The terse wrinkled lines of his poetry are like those of his small face in their expression of quiet pessimism, of a thoughtful, stoic sorrow. His "Epitaph on a Pessimist'' is a flippant quatrain: I'm Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-odd, I've lived without a dame From youth-time on; and would to God My dad had done the same...