Hitherto it has been the habit of producers to lead female spies to their natural, and well-merited end. And this reviewer must confess an inability to discern any ameliorating quality in Miss Bennett's performance. As a Russian spy, she is transparent; as a cabaret performer she sings horridly and dances awkwardly: as a lover she is meticulously unlovely, and earnestly mechanical. In short Miss Bennett has added another dud to her amazing collection. She is ably abetted in this process by a mundane story, by a stolid cast, and by a director with more memory than imagination. All in all, "After Tonight" is sad very sad.

And if the Keith's management have any further reason for a sparse Sunday crowd, let it consider the following that Culbertson featurettes are poorly acted and rank advertising; that Wisner Vitaphone musicalities are neither musical nor comical; and that, as dwindling applause should indicate the Comfords are beginning to lose the glamor of New York and to take on the appearance of able hard working organists. Even Boston will refuse to support a picture like this.