Vol. VI No. 1 - Modernist Magazines Project

THE BERMONDSEY BOOK
DEAR BERMONDSEY BOOK,
NEW YORK, November.
VERY few things surprise a New Yorker; his ears have become
hardened to the squeaking of taxi-cab brakes, the piercing staccato*
of riveting machines, the never ceasing rumbling of the Elevated, to
an almost infinite number of noises. He walks hastily through the
streets, jostles his neighbour, is jostled in return by other pedestrians, and
dashes by a spiral route between automobiles when he crosses the road,
without so much as blinking an eye. Nevertheless every day he is greeted by
new phenomena which, although eliciting no surprise from him, arouse his
curiosity and finally his wallet. Now it is the Vitaphone, or Movietone, or, in
simpler terms, Speaking Pictures.
The first presentation of the Vitaphone was regarded with interest for
several minutes, then with perplexity, and lastly with amusement. For on
the screen was shown a singer, dressed elaborately, who opened and closed
his mouth, dilated his eyes, made vain gestures—but where did the voice
come from? not from his mouth, it seemed, but from some corner at the foot
of the screen. And sometimes the actor opened his mouth, but not until he
almost closed it again did his voice burst forth as though by means of
ventriloquism.
Beginning with individual performers and short sentimental vaudeville
acts, the Vitaphone extended its scope to the regular moving pictures, and
incidentally succeeded in achieving synchronization of voice and gesture.
"The tremendous future success of the moving picture business is assured"
and practically every picture firm began to erect large voice production
edifices, screen actors took to voice training and to the gargling of raw
eggs, and as usual the public once more has become the recipient of mediocrity,
sentimentality, and Noise,
To-day great signs on Broadway brightly twinkle with bold announcements
of "Don't fail to see The Terror"; you'll regret missing "The Revenge
of Red-headed Molly," a blood-curdling production. Listen to the voices of
your favourite "stars," and numerous other optimistic allurements.
After one hears his favourite "star's" voice—there is no more favourite
"star." "Why, she talks through her nose!" "Oh, I thought he had a deep,
masculine voice, and just hear him: he talks like my brother's wife."
Passionate but silent love scenes, having lent themselves to the audience's
imagination, were, somehow, successful; but passionate love scenes accompanied
with honeyed lullabys of "I'll love you till I draw my last breath,"
"How dare my father come between us—we'll elope, my sweetheart," "Oh,
you brute, unhand me!" and so on, strangely fail to produce pleasant
emotions in young hearts and memories in hearts petrified by age. Tragedy
turns to humour when the virtue of the heroine is at stake, and and the villain
announces with a triumphant leer, "At last, my dear, I've got you in my
power."
It is true that moving pictures accompanied only by orchestral music via
the sound machine, from which, at a most tender moment on the screen
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