Samuals D. Stutengerber (above) is a motion picture celluloid reviewer for the Daily Mirror.
Written by Samuals D. Stutenberger, January 31st 1921.
There I was, stumbling out of Harrison's Gin Mill, with some Jane on my arm. My tired knees buckled, as I was quite spifflicated, and the hours upon hours of doing the Charleston didn't help. This doll was silly with giggle water, but she was quite the hoofer, with a sparkling pair of gams to match. I wanted to get a wiggle on out of this joint, and show this Sheba that I'm quite the Sheik. But this happy, little tomato with a killer chassis had other ideas. She was hitting on all sixes, and before counting sheep, this night owl wanted to take in a talkie. A moving picture. At this hour? Well, I didn't want to be a wet blanket and since we were dolled up to the nines anyhow, we dashed through Tin Pan Alley for the movie house faster than Capone on the lam.
The Rag-a-muffin at the box office queried as to which picture we'd like to glance at, and I perused the selection. Hmmm, nothing to my liking, so I dropped 3 clams and a half Suzie piece for 2 tickets to Cloverfield. That appeared to be a good place for me and this dame to snuggle up real close like and neck. Even if the picture wasn't the cat's pajamas, we were sure to have some whoppee.
Everything was ducky at first, and I felt like quite the egg. While the newsreel and Harmon-Ising cartoon ran, this copacetic broad was getting goofy on me. But then just as everything was getting hotsy-totsy, Cloverfield began. On the screen before me, was a disaster of infinite proportions. The images, shaky, unsteady....as if I was in San Francisco during 1906. Me and my girl started getting the heebie jeebies, made even worst by the fact that we were already zozzled to the brim. The charlatans! They call this a motion picture?? Where was the hero in white? The villian in black? These youngertons on the screen spoke like no one was home. Saps! You consider your selves Hollywoodland actors?? What a bunch of Palookas. Want to see the Real McCoy? Go see a Pickford or Fairbanks picture! Lon Chaney Sr.! Anything from RKO. They're all nifty.
But this Cloverfield assaulted me and my Jane, and I decided we were all wet. The picture didn't even have intermissions during the reel change! Baloney! I challenge any chum, even President Harding himself, to sit through this mish mash of color and shrieks. I now had a beef with the joint's managerial staff and it's field of clovers. I leaned over to collect my dame and bounce, only to have her upchuck about my glad rags! Horsefeathers! The Jane rolled out of her seat, to the floor amongst the dead soldiers still half-filled with hooch. Boy, oh boy. This broad was bound to be a bearcat when she woke up. Nighty-night Jane, maybe I'll see ya round. Luckiy, I had a bottle of R.J. Anderson's All-curing elixir in my breast pocket which I carry for just the occasion. I stole a swig to settle my gut, and with a pat to her backside, left the bottle tucked into Jane's garter belt. Hopefully this flapper's dapper doesn't come eyeing me later.
I knew I was about to get the bum's rush from the theatre bimbo, and I had had an earful, so I shouted 'Applesauce' to Cloverfield. I left the theatre knowing I had been double-crossed. I dropped plenty of rubes and nothing had come from it except a new color for my threads courtesy of Jane.
This night had been a wash. Don't get caught in the caper of Cloverfield for if you do, you'll sure to be taking wooden nickels. I give Cloverfield five bronx cheers.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.
