THAT NIGHT

The advent of art to Brattle Street is an occasion for loud applause. True, art has a habit of coming to Brattle Street but usually it is in less interesting and more turgid forms than distinctive movies. The program of films scheduled for the coming months at the local guild hall is remarkable; it includes such diversions as "Stark Love", supposedly as near unpremeditated art as a camera man can approach, Janning's "The Last Laugh", and other foreign and native pictures which are made with at least one eye on an intelligent public and off the box office.

With this pretentious array of cinema offerings and with the excellent fare offered by the University Theatre which has made its way out of the commercial entanglements that threatened to smother it at birth and which now provides movies whose average caliber is surprisingly high, one may feel well fortified against the entrenchments of the imminent winter, when hegiras to Boston seem long and arduous. The infant industry has a way of filling in empty hours which is pleasant and occasionally beneficial. It serves well as a target for the highbrow's scorn but it also serves equally well as a remedy for his ennui.