Word: unrealness
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...becoming one of those compact, dreary dramas of the European underworld that have been done so effectively by UFA and Sovkino. Instead, the drama of its one genuine situation-a harlot (Norma Talmadge) suspected of the murder of a suicide-is ignored in favor of a series of patently unreal and cinematic developments in which the lady, reformed, is called upon to perform for the sake of her country an act which patriotism unconvincingly transforms from a two-rouble incident to a Holy Sacrifice...
...persuaded so many nations (14 of them besides the U. S.) to speak solemnly in concert about anything. The difficulties in the way of getting such a treaty ratified are: 1) Some people object to solemn-speaking on the ground that the more solemn a thing is the more unreal it is; 2) Some people object on the ground that the more solemn a thing is the more binding it is-the more it may commit the U. S. to an international course beyond the present intent...
...subjected to a comparison with the first, The Front Page, which did not thereby lose its position as a headliner. The comparison, though, was interesting for it proved that truth, stranger than fiction, is not as exciting when placed upon the stage. Gentlemen of the Press lacks the hectic, unreal, melodramatic turbulence of the Hecht-MacArthur piece and insomuch it is a more true and a less compelling drama. Ward Morehouse of the dramatic page of the New York Sun wrote it; he should and does know city rooms such as the one in a corner of which his play...
...theatre is a dusty kennel, full of drafts and dust, scented forever with a sweet, unreal and sticky perfume, built of planks and plush, to house deceptions. Hoboken, N. J., is a squat and smoky suburb of Manhattan, a place where trains load and boats dock, where beery workmen lurch home along cobbled streets and where the world of art is chiefly represented by ancient and execrable examples of the cinema. Why then should anyone want to own a theatre in Hoboken, N. J.? Famed Author Christopher Darlington Morley (Where the Blue Begins, Thunder on the Left) knows, for last...
...flames, which even as I looked, stretched out like a giant blowlamp rearwards over the seat occupied by Elwood Hosmer and beyond the rudder and tail. In the darkness the whole machine must have appeared like a grotesque red comet. The whole situation seemed like a nightmare and quite unreal. Even now I find it difficult to realize we were in a blazing airplane over mid-Atlantic at midnight . . . seemed impossible to put down safely in the dark on a burning seaplane which still had a ton overload. As I drew out of the dive I saw the glow reflected...