If movies stood still, Rudolph Valentino would be history’s greatest actor. But that doesn’t make sense, does it?
Oh, he addles me. In stills, Valentino’s beauty and presence shine through to me as clearly as they do to anyone. But his major films amount to a collection of poses, strung along a thin thread of bromides and nonsense. They’re so hokey and silly; his acting so dopey, that nothing can pull me in. I’m left trying to apprehend him as his long-dead fans—most of them women—once did. And I fail.
