The Letters of Annabel Lee

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 36, 23 March 1928, Page 3

The Letters of Annabel Lee

My dear Elisabeth: Adapting the Rubaiyat, myself when bored do oftentimes freauent a picture play, and find great devil- — ment. The saccharine quality, how- | ever, was more evident in the latest — Pickford production now running at — the Empress, which is of that purely © ‘domestic variety in which the World’s | Sweetheart makes havoc of the sentimental heart. Although she has proved herself a sufficiently accomplished actress in more artistic roles, Mary clings closely to the Little Girl form of divinity, preferring to gaze childishly from fringed and liquid eyes, toss untidy curls, the while she smiles her way into the favour of immense, admiring audiences. Having said this, however, I am all admiration for the manner in which Miss Pickford acts the part of the adorably clumsy "store hand,’’ is guardian angel to her feckless family, storms the affections and becomes the Best Girl of the son of the boss, unconvincingly masquerading as a fel-low-employee. The little play moves along smilingly in familiar fashion through wet, wet streets, amongst incredibly rapid motor cars, including a quite idiotic court scene and the vindication of the heroine from mercenary motives, to a satisfactory

finale on the boat for Honolulu, where we have our last glimpse of the lovers, clutched in a tornado of transport. All this and more also was obviously to the delight of the chewers of gum and chawers of ice cream who comprised the afternoon audience. Not that the absorption of saccharine sustenance is confined to picture fans; among a large number of the devotees of theatrical art, highbrow as well as lowbrow, apparently ’tis a law of the Medes and Persians that mastication is an aid to appreciation.

We are told that the delightful art of Miss Edna Thomas is to be broadcast by the B.B.C. This is good news for those who remember that charming warbler of negro spirituals and the melodies of the Creole, into the interpretation of which she infused an infinite subtlety and musicianly quality of a unique charm. Now, through the wonder of wireless, the beauty and pathos and rarity of her work will be appreciated by thousands, who otherwise would be unaware of the haunting melody and meaning of these songs of the mixed races.

Triumphantly in these days of simplicity of dress has many a plain Jane emerged from the ordeal of chemise frock and shingled hair. It is doubtful if in any decade the woman of fifty, or-even sixty, summers, has socially had a better run for her money than in this year of our Lord, and aren’t we all glad to be alive nowadays instead of the prim and prurient days of Victoria the Good? All the same, "’tis true ’tis pity, and pity ’tis ’tis true," that lovely woman does not always look that best which is greatly desirable, however emancipated she may be. A great help thereto will be the veiis that, I predict, are soon to descend upon femininity like quills upon the fretful porcupine-not an altogether happy simile, by the way. Consoling are these tiny wisps of tulle or lace that shade the eyes that are apt to screw up and become dull and fagged after a strenuous morning under a glaring sun and amid the screeching trams. And so we welcome the veil which, though only a tiny one, like the historic baby, is as veritably a veil as one worn by a sultan’s favourite, and perhaps will prove as fascinating. At a small, gay recent tea appeared a sports suit that is surely the precursor of what will prove a very attractive uniform for the busy, welldressed woman. Very simple, very well cut, was this garment of softest satin on the so familiar jumper lines, in colour of twilight green, the low

folded belt clasped in front with a brooch of opaque quality and splashed with the hues of a fading rainbow; the whole effect so artistically satisfying that ’twill encourage a sartorial epidemic among those who admit preference for clothing of the sports variety, now that the tweeds and woollens, once so popular in this connection, have been left in the lurch, and more seductive materials employed in the fashioning thereof. In the realm of the ornamental it is worthy of note that birds and beasts and fishes flaunt a brief day. Particularly the former; and smallwinged creatures flame suddenly in modish turbans and skull caps, given verisimilitude .to feathered fowl by the addition of sweeping brilliant feathers of some defunct songster. How intriguing to the eye, par exemple, was a tiny bird of crystal, such as was never visualised by W. H. Hudson, with drooping tail of

free love are stopped in their enlightened quest by the hazard of fate, and very amusingly made to act in entirely different fashion from tnose little plans that so woefully go "agley"; finally being roped in for the doing of good works in a small and pious township. And so back to Paddington station, whence they set forth with high hopes, to begin all over again, having been thwarted in their dash for liberty. Which goes to prove that fate still works for our good as well as for our ill, as Emer son told those who lived and loved in the dull days of the Victorian era, when matrimony was the golden. goal of the young and frolicsome and also of the old and determined. I

green and blue plumes, its loveliness perched low at the side and adding piquancy to the demureness of a close fitting hat, worn with austerely tailored suit of that black cloth that will make a bold bid for favour in the autumn that looms so close. In "A Long Week End," an author who lately made a distinguished success in a study of modern youth, tries her hand at a short story with considerable originality and wit. She tells of two lovers who, by the fell elutch of that circumstance that is too much for most of us, are hindered from the marriage insisted upon by convention, and so go off together for an unsanctioned honeymoon. This somewhat ancient theme is played upon with vivacity, ingenuity and literary skill. The devotees of

wonder if it still is. "T sez to him, sez I,’ I overneard in Hill Street, "marriage ain’t wot it wos, not wot it’s cracked up. Murryin’s no use to me, sez I to him, lL don’t think about it no more. 1 want a bit of fun, I sez, an’ nu worries..."’ nodding a battered head, on which reposed a hat decorated with what was once a_ feather, assisted by a bunch of the gaudy flowerets one associated with overflow baskets at sale-time, | Her companion shook a conventional head moodily. ‘‘Marryin’s a sight better than this hugger-mug-ger," she said with finality. "My Jim married me after six months. I’ve never missed no one like my old man, and that’s Gawd’s truth. And he’ll neyer come back no more," she finished with a break in the beery voice. So, as ever, ’tis every man to his taste.-Your

ANNABEL

LEE