Stunningly racist early talkie in which Chinese (first howler) Richard Barthelmess loves wealthy jet-setter Constance Bennett, but when she finds out his heritage she's immediately shocked, flogs him publicly ("You cur!"), and then is immediately sorry. No matter: Ten minutes into this thing I murmured, "Oh, it's going to turn out he's not really Chinese," and I was right. All the head-shaking and tut-tutting about the mixing of the races now looks absurd, and the phony fascination with Chinoiserie is stilted--much hushed talking in what may or may not be Mandarin, a gaudy Oriental production design. You'll hear "Chink" and "yellow" and other epithets mouthed with ear-splitting disdain, and you'll feel for poor Barthelmess, who is sensitive and dignified but has an unplayable role. Add to that some Irish stereotyping from supporting players and a poorly motivated flashback late in the film (is this where the Technicolor came in? It's in the credits but the surviving print is B&W), and you have an ineptness scarcely believable in an estimable director like Frank Lloyd. Maybe, in so-different 1930, it wasn't the howler it is today.
Review of Son of the Gods
