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The Moviegoer

Shudders in "The Murder of Dr. Harrigan"; Smiles in "Paddy O'Day"; Not Much in Either

By E. C. B.

Paramount and Fenway this week can beast of variety in their so-called attractions. One of them is about murder; the other is about the milk of human kindness. But that is about all.

Warner Brothers have brought out a new one for their nondescript "Clue-Club" called "The Murder of Doctor Harrigan." The Doe is a nasty, surly fellow whom everybody is glad to be rid of. But he is stabbed to death in his own hospital, right under the noses of the "men and women in white," as everybody calls them nowadays. For this and sundry reasons the characters of the play feel it incumbent upon themselves to solve the crime.

Confusion and Cliches

So we settle down for a long slege of bewilderment. And then, after the hero and the heroine have been chasing about the hospital for an hour or so, to no observable purpose, they calmly explain the whole thing to the inspector. A very harmless-looking interne for whom we had formed quite a liking, turns out to be the dastard, proving conclusively that you just can't trust anybody.

There is very little acting except saying of lines and screaming. That one can forgive. But inasmuch as every third scene or so is comic relief, it is a little disappointing to find no comedy. Besides Ricardo Cortez and Mary Aster, there is a new girl in the picture named Kay Linaker. We wish that we could be as confident as Warner Brothers that she is "destined for stardom shortly."

Jane Withers Bubbles Over

"Paddy O'Day" is one of those pictures in which no one can help smiling after Jane Withers, Miss Temple's only rival, has told him in her inimitable way to hold up his chin. As is her custom, she makes a real fellow out of a hopeless sissy; so much so that he feeds his favorite stuffed bird to her vivacious pup. But her achievements are never limited to such trivial reformations, for she is a minor Orphan Annie. This time she puts over a night-club venture for a bunch of Russian immigrants whom she met on the way over, and brings the erstwhile namby-pamby into conjunction with the pretty dancer of the lot. Lesser triumphs, such as beating up Bowery toughs, are scarcely worth mentioning. "A remarkable child," you'll say. The fact is that Jane Withers really has a forward, winning way about her, even if her sauey brogue in this picture, on the authority of our Irish friends, is a bit spurious.

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