At Last One Fragment of Von's Opus Reaches Screen

By Wilfred Beaton (1928) When Eric von Stroheim first sees Fay Wray in The Wedding March he is in the saddle, in command of a small detachment of cavalry acting as guard for the Austrian emperor. In keeping with military restrictions, Von sits rigidly erect. Fay, an onlooker, is standing at the curb. She is attracted by the dashing officer and looks up at him. Her pretty face- and Fay is really beautiful throughout the whole picture- attracts Von and he makes fleeting glances at her without changing his position or relieving the stiffness of his military bearing. Fay is confused; she lowers her eyes, but again they seek those of the military image towering above her. Close-up follows close-up; shy glances grow bold and become smiles; surreptitiously Fay drops a flower into the yawning top of the officer's military shoes, and with a stealthy movement he raises it to his lips. There is little action in the sequence, but Von Stroheim's superb direction puts a wealth of meaning into it. It is of a piece with a score of brilliant directorial gems which make The Wedding March sparkle. Von has a long scene with his mother (Maud George) during which each speaks titles that are necessary to plant the story. They stand still, but the scene is full of action due to its scintillating direction. George Fawcett, father of Von, and the late George Nichols, father of Zasu Pitts, arrange the marriage of the two. They are seated on the floor, and they are maudlin with drink. The scene is acted magnificently and directed with rare skill. I have seen The Wedding March twice, once at Anaheim and again at Long Beach. When I saw it first I refrained from commenting on it, for it was presented in an experimental shape, and the experiment failed. As it was so bad that any change must improve it, I did not feel that it was fair to damn it for faults that would disappear when it was recut. In the form in which it was shown at Long Beach it is an infinitely better picture. Owing to the crazy way in which it was made, by which the complete story was told in one hundred reels, it is possible to present only a portion of it in the ten reels in which it will be released. The ten reels that I saw on the second occasion tell only that portion of the story that deals with the incidents leading up to the dramatic episodes in which the acting and the direction reach their greatest heights. But the ten reels make a good picture, with tense drama, magnificent performances, inspired direction, superb production, and beautiful photography. The Anaheim version had the weakness of characterizing Von Stroheim as an all-good hero, a role that he has neither the appearance nor the personality to play convincingly. Nicki was made so spotless in that version that when the seduction scene was reached it gave the impression that Mitzi, his victim, had been the aggressor. In the final version Nicki is presented as the roue that he was drawn in the original story, and all the scenes which developed that side of him were put back into the picture, with the result that it becomes a gripping story of a man's lust and a pure girl's love. With consummate skill Von Stroheim puts the story on the screen, his acting deserving as much praise as his direction. In places the tempo is so slow that it may be resented by those who do not follow pictures closely enough to become interested in the degree of subtlety that they can display, but on the whole I think it is a production that will do well at the box-office.

Wilfred Beaton, "At Last One Fragment of Von's Opus Reaches Screen," The Film Spectator, March 17,1928, page 7.

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