Through the infernal blackness of the midnight jungle on an island "as yet not, self-determined by marines" fled Jones, Imperator. He was pursued by the tom-tom's beat, by the tax-leeched natives whom he had ruled, by voodoo devils, by the weakness of the mortal flesh. Three shots rang out. His Majesty fell, staggered forward, collapsed at the feet of Smithers, white, rum-soaked, trader. "Where's year 'igh an' mighty airs now, yer bloomin' Majesty? Gawd blimey, but yer died in the 'eighth o' style, any'ow!"

The difficult transition from boards to celluloid has left O'Neill's "Emperor Jones" undamaged. The script of the short drama is used without change, with only a little prefatory matter added as a sop to Moronia. Since the additions are in the style of the original tragedy, since O'Neill's play as it stood opened too directly in medias res, and since the emendations take advantage of the wider possibilities of the camera, the changes are an improvement on the legitimate play. Photography and direction, and excellent suporting cast and good music aid Paul Robeson's magnificent interpretation of the disintegration of His Imperial Highness, Jones.