I am of the mire too dirty for swine; I am of the filth that incinerators cannot destroy; I am of the stench that God’s own sun fails to purify; I am of the corruption that lies at the most dismal depths of man’s mind; I am the slime and slew that pervert the divine gift of speech;—I AM “SMUT.”

I am the foul breath of disease; I am the tainted hands of sin; I am Thought strangled by Shame;—I AM “SMUT.”

The muddied waters of the Ganges are to me as the rippling mountain brook.

I am the refuse that Hell discharges.

I AM “SMUT.”

And it is to me that the great Master of the Motion Picture has turned for succor.

I am selected as the tool to lure a vile profit.

To me it has been left to smirch the good name of a revered American classic; to dig a Grave of the Nameless for a play that clean men and women have loved.

I am the Satanic genius that makes an Artist—moulder of a pictorial masterpiece—poison his triumph in gangrene.

I AM “SMUT.”

My words need explanation. Yet from my own foul station I hesitate to descend. Here, however, is an advertisement that sullied the pages of a New York newspaper on October 4th:

“Why does every woman have to feel the straining power of seduction in one form or another—the hot, alluring breaths of deceits?

“This thing has been, time and again, from the beginning of history, through all the ages. Man’s most beautiful property, most sought after, most desired, has been woman. And through all these ages it was more through passion than the better desires.

“Even the saints of past history fought bloody battles; worked, dreamed, struggled through their love for women—not satisfied with one or two or three. These almighty men demanded hundreds—every variety of beauty, dainty little girls in their teens; blondes from the Northlands; strange slant-eyed brunettes from the Southlands. Mighty wars, broken nations, wrecked civilizations over the Helens-of-Troy and Cleopatras.

“Doesn’t the same battle go on today, though changed and modified? Is not every little girl still pursued? Why? What is this great mystery of love?

“There is the greatest revelation of a woman’s soul and a woman’s temptation in a tremendous play that is shaking the world; the greatest uncovering of a woman’s inner soul ever given. If you know, then you know all love and all temptation, joy and sorrow. You will know the DIFFERENCE between the alluring passion of deceit that leads to bitter ashes; the great overwhelming, all-enfolding SOUL LOVE that looks through the body and finds the great WOMAN-HEART; the love that every woman wants, with peace and purity, leading on and up to the great happiness, with the masterful, overwhelming bliss, all centered love of the great ONE MAN.

“To learn the great lesson of ALL LOVE you must see ‘WAY DOWN EAST,’ and WOMAN and ALL WOMEN, and the story of Anna Moore in this play. And of David the farmer boy, greatest of all lovers. And Sanderson, with the old polygamous idea of deceit and shame for those women who fall in his clutches.”

May my respected ancestors forgive me the quotation. May the minions of Evil temper their contempt as I repeat:

“Why does every woman have to feel the straining power of seduction?”

“The hot alluring breaths of deceit.”

“Even the saints of past history——”

“These almighty men demanded hundreds.”

“Is not every little girl still pursued?”

Mephistopheles—thy pardon! Boccaccio,—turn not from me in repugnance!

Mothers of Men—thy prayers!

Verily, I am the dross that dares tarnish the sweet name of Woman; I am the ulcers of leprosy; I am the spawn of hellions;—I AM “SMUT.”

Yet—

Am I the tool of the Master?

Am I the bait that is sought to lure scurvy dollars?

Am I to be the left hand of the Griffith?

FILM TRUTH will now speak:

Why, oh, why, does the name of Griffith have to be signed to the slushy drivel of such advertisements?

“Way Down East” is a big picture; “Way Down East” can stand fairly, squarely, flatly on its own feet. “Way Down East” is worth two dollars of any man’s money.

We paid two dollars to see it—and we are going to pay again. Provided Mr. Griffith’s advertising writers don’t convince us that our money would be accepted as a response to the salacious; our two dollars a contribution to the cause of promoting motion picture censorship.

“Way Down East” lived its life on the American stage honored and respected—without the need of such truck and trash.

“Way Down East” made fortunes for its stage sponsors, and yet the “Way Down East” of the spoken drama was as an amateur’s weak-kneed effort to the stirring strength of the screen gem that Griffith has given us.

Then why the need for advertising what is cheap, tawdry and contemptible?

The “Way Down East” of the stage did not need, and the “Way Down East” of the screen does not need, an appeal that says:

“Why does every woman have to feel the straining power of seduction in one form or another—the hot, alluring breaths of deceits?”

The charming lady on the cover is not a bare back rider. Appearances are deceptive. It is Norma Nicholls, one of a sextet of Vanity Fair girls who, under Hal Roach’s protecting wing will delight the tired business man in comedies to be released by Pathe.

P. S.—The other five are just as pulchritudinous.

On the inside front cover the attractive study by moonlight is one of Lucy Cotton.

And, we ask you, who couldn’t cotton to Lucy?