To see what Mr. March would make of "Dr. Jekyll" at the University Theatre was a matter of live interest to this Playgoer. For no sooner had lurid posters shown forth the face of Hyde than Stevenson's story came back from early schooldays with all its creeping horrors. It was indeed a tale to harrow up the soul, freeze the young blood; and one day a very young reviewer squirmed in his theatre seat as John Barrymore darkened the screen with the long shadow of Hyde. Not even a break in the film and an "End of Reel Three" sign could dull the terror of that figure as with the ffickering stealth of primitive films he bared his fangs and prowled the streets of Soho. Such memories as these Mr. March had to contend with if he was to satisfy this reviewer. He was beaten before he began; for the man who made merry with Barrymore's mannerisms could not match the effect that those mannerisms made.

When the new film began with the playing of a Toccata and Fugue of Bach and set the key beautifully for what was sistently imaginative telling of an im-to follow, this reviewer hoped for a conaginative story. But no; before long, sandwiched in between the most admirable scenes in the London fog, there had to be a lot of silly dialogue and a wholly gratuitous love affair. Mr. March, after rattling the locks of old doors so splendidly, had to rattle the bones of old melodrama with such observations as "I give you up because I love you so."

The particular bit of action that every audience waits for is the transformation from Jekyll to Hyde. It is done here in close-up, in full sight of the camera. The director has managed a smooth bit of lap-dissolving, a technical tour-deforce. But he has not been as effective or imaginative as Mr. Barrymore, who simply put his hands up before his face and slowly drew them down again to reveal changed features. Again, Mr. March has authority from Stevenson to make some manner of noise during the transformation scene, which involved "the most racking pains . . . a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horor of spirit"; but such a lusty wheezing and blowing as Mr. March makes you have never heard since you played locomotive on the nursery floor. Mr. Hyde is conceived here as a playfully sensuous figure rather than as a really sinister one. He bounds about in his new-found freedom like an overgrown brownie or a slightly cretinous baboon. Stevenson made it clear that "Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil."

The director who did this motley piece of work, with its impressive pantomine and its empty dialogue; had able assistants to insure a good evening for the audience: the gifted photography of Mr. Karl Struss and the gifted pornography of Miss Miriam Hopkins.