Doomed Liner

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 968, 10 May 1930, Page 28

Doomed Liner

“ATLANTIC” AT CIVIC Impressive Film from Elstree IT is difficult to describe “Atlantic” in ordinary cinema terms or to compare it with ordinary cinema shows. This British International picture which opened yesterday at the Civic, besides being a talking production of the most modern type is a hold experiment. As a thinly-veiled reconstruction of the Titanic disaster, “Atlantic” will ta'ke a lasting place in screen history as a monumental tribute to the Mercantile Marine. The thrilling appeal, “Be British l” which precedes the final act of a grim tragedy, expresses the spirit of the film.

He who seeks entertainment that is light, romantic, and pleasantly amusing, should stay away from “Atlantic.” It is not a picture to be taken casually or in the ordinary pastime mood of the theatre. Nor is it a picture for the immature in mind. “Atlantic” is a simple, almost unrelieved record of a stark tragedy. The tale of the sinking of a great liner is told on the screen in a logical, straight-forward fashion that strikes

awe into the watcher because of its sheer reality. There are no camera tricks or strivings for dramatic effect. There is no story except the story of a strickefi ship. The points and subtleties usually found in pictures have been dispensed with for the good and sufficient reason that they are unneces-

sary. Their presence would serve merely to confuse the central theme. In directing the film E. A. Dupont, maker of “Variety,” has allowed the terrible picture of the wreck to speak for itself without exaggeration, without undue emphasis, and without distasteful detail. With uncanny power he has built up an atmosphere of looming tragedy, then inevitability, and, lastly, helplessness. The realism of the production is such that one is transported to the decks of the great liner, there to mingle with the passengers and to share their incredulous horror and their mental reactions when facing the fate that is to be theirs. The film opens quietly, almost unimpressively, but the absence of swift action is intentional. We meet the saloon passengers engaged in the usual pastimes of life on a great liner. Some are dancing, some playing cards. “No, I am a creature of habit. i like an ordered life,” says one man. an invalid, when asked to join a party. We move to the bridge, where men are scanning a dark, calm sea anxiously. The ship is in the iceberg zone. H6r captain is more worried ! than he cares to admit. STRIKING THE BERG ' Back to the saloon. There we see glimpses of petty intrigue, personal feeling, loves, sorrows—trivial little social happenings. But already an atmosphere of foreboding may be sensed. The actual striking of the berg Is unexciting, as the beginnings of great tragedies often are. A slight shock. "What was that?” asks someone in the saloon. The padre laughs. “I believe we scraped a jolly old berg,” he says. On the bridge there is no illusion of security. Grave reports are telephoned from the engine-room and stokehold. Lights flash as, one by one, the watertight doors close. The wireless calls frantically for help, orders are given and passed on with the precision that British training makes possible; buzzers call the crew and staff to their posts. The ! emergency machinery of the liner is | in motion. So the tragedy is enacted. We ; are with a few saloon passengers ! when the}' are told the news and the truth of their positions. We study , their outward emotions. As the play proceeds these personal glimpses are ; accompanied by the sounds of a great i ship in mortal peril—the nerve-wrack- | ing tolling of warning bells, the hiss [ and explosion of rockets, and the dull • roar of escaping steam as fires are

di’awn and pressure is taken off the boilers. LOWERING THE BOATS On deck sailors and officers labour like madmen to hold back the now frightened crowds and fill the lifeboats with women and children. There is a dull, incessant whine of electric motors as the boats are released from the falls and sink down to the water. Behind that sound is the heroic mockery of a lively tune played by the ship’s band in the hope of averting the dreaded panic. Finally the comparative silence, when the boats are gone with all they can hold. The people in them are certain of rescue, for the sea is calm and ships are tearing through the night to the spot. Those who remain face certain death —people young and old, a, distracted lover, the padre, the man who is “a creature of habit,” the first officer who is a very gallant gentleman, and the women who love too deeply to wish for life. The end comes mercifully. We are spared things that are vivid enough in imagination and, as the lights are extinguished, a prayer brings its message of hope to those who are waiting. __ Sunrise on a calm sea. That is all. Elstree, to its lasting credit, made this picture. In every word it is English; in every sentiment British. Its technique is something at which to marvel, and its use of sound and speech a lesson to every producer. To see “Atlantic” is a rare, impressive experience.