Life, 1921-04-21 · page 14 of 36
Life — April 21, 1921 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page features literary criticism by Henry William Hanemann reviewing several contemporary works. The main illustration depicts a chaotic taxi scene captioned "Oh, Henry! My New String Hat," illustrating Gregory Parr's novel about a taxi driver who discovers a dead body in his cab. The reviews discuss works by Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, and George Jean Nathan. Hanemann criticizes Nathan's theatrical writings as overly pretentious and self-aggrandizing, comparing his verbose style unfavorably to more straightforward literary approaches. The overall tone suggests satire of both new commercial fiction and affected literary criticism of the era.
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wt with Conan Doyle running around establishing him- self as the Mack Sennett of the World Beyond, and H. G. Wells taking himself and the visible universe seriously, it looks as if the old demi-gods were arriving at the sorry stage where the mustache goes untrimmed and the post-prandial crumbs remain unbrushed from the senescent waistcoat. The thought of Sherlock Holmes trading his beloved Stradivarius for a.C Melody spirit horn, and “Tono Bungay” being known to future generations as a non-alcoholic, light Catawba wine is enough to make at least one reasonably strong man weep. Consequently, one is inclined to greet The Mountebank (John Lane), by William J. Locke, somewhat effusively. Placing stiff- necked Britishers in French settings, Locke has ever laid himself open to wistful gratitude. On capable feet, the Mountebank balances neatly in make-up applied with the telling subtlety of a hand that knows no tremor senilis, After a startling succession of books containing inner urges beating their rainbow wings against the dull wall of muddle-brained mediocrity, this Anglo- Gallic romance of an English clown turned general is as helpful as an opened window at a studio tea. ISHING a fresh start from a family financial cataclysm, Gregory Parr purchases a decrepit taxi from its driver- owner ina New York waterfront saloon. He gets the fresh start when he discovers a dead body on the floor of the taxi. The reader gets a fresh start every chapter or so. In The Owl Tax (Doran), Hulbert Footner has evolved a tale of Central America light enough and sufficiently sinister to cozen the most ual follower of newspaper headlines. EORGE JEAN NATHAN, whose decided opinions are further gathered under the title The Theatre, The Drama, The Girls (Knopf), is out of the range my light artillery. I would just as soon take a shot at the Sphinx Unlike the Sphinx he’s enough of an amiable curiosity without having his nose blown off. I must confess that I like him, Let me also say that I like alligator pears, Rocquefort cheese dressing, oyster plant and Satie. In The Theatre, The Drama, The Girls, there is some pishposh, some flubdub and considerable flapdoodte. Obviously sincere and with considerable knowledge, he pre- fers to produce his effects in much the same way as does the gentleman and scholar who places his derby hat on the bust of Marcus Aurelius. “I venerate Moliére,” says Nathan, “and Annette Bade’s legs. I have a fond ear for Brahms and Irving Berlin"—preposterous posturing that is vastly en- tertaining for a limited time. Once one grows familiar with the not too intricate pattern of his warp and woof, his whisker-scribbling antics prove dis- appointing. Nathan Der Weise is being constantly biffed over the head with the slapstick of Nathan Der Kalbmoses. However, a convers with George W. Lederer, “ the super-Ziegfeld of the early oo's” anent the ephemeral charm of the stage ex-beauty, by virtue of its actual biographical value scores heavily, Read N. by all means. Tempest in a wash-boiler he may be, yet he exerts a wicked influence. He amuses far more than he instructs As a horrible example, take this review Henry William Hanemann OH, HENRY! MY NEW SPRING HAT.” comicbooks.com