"Ecstasy," gentlemen, has come to town, the anti-climactical hang-over of a wild publicity orgy. So synonymous is it with all things anti-Hays that the public has decided that "Ecstasy" is Old Howard's long-awaited rival. But the reigning queens of Howard Street need have no worries about business falling off. Aside from the now-famous Log Cabin Close-up and a couple of long distance shots of Miss Lamarr loping around the countryside without a stitch to her name, the picture makes no monumental play for the baser passions. In fact, the sex in "Ecstasy" makes a noble effort to be etherial, cosmic, and all very symbolic. Perhaps this was the director's secret, haunting ideal. If so, he came far from realizing it on celluloid, What he did realize was neither fish nor fowl; neither good, healthy cinepornography, nor a great, emotional masterpiece that would poeticize the Biological Urge. There were the makings of a truly important picture in "Ecstasy." The scarcity of dialogue, the drifting, almost aimless pace, the startling photography, all would have given the picture rare distinction had they been carried out with technical skill. The production, however, was raw-boned, awkward, and those features that would have saved it were lost.