Not long ago, apropos of the film version of Eugene O’Neill’s “Strange Interlude,” I wrote an article in which I said that so far as I knew, the moving pictures had not yet turned out a play of significance, that even when the play on which the film was based had been of some importance, the screen result had not.
Since Miss Greta Garbo came to America some years ago, her fame has grown and grown. In her last picture, a Hollywood and rather nursery version of Pirandello’s “As You Desire Me,” she has come to the end of her contract and to her highest success; the piece has passed from one end of country to the other in triumph, and Miss Garbo has gone back to Sweden, to return or not to return as the case may be. During all this time her position has steadily advanced.
When you see a yellow pine pipe-box or a kitchen stool go for more than a Renaissance enamel would bring or a crystal of the seventeenth century, you have, if you are blessed with a serene mind, two reflections: one, that this is after all pure collecting, collecting divorced from all meaning or beauty or use, like paying trebly for the copy of Keats with the misprint on the last page or one of the ten first stamps of Heligoland printed in the wrong brown through a misunderstanding on the engraver’s part—this is after all pure collecting as a legitimate pastime and quite harmless, better than