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The Lady Lies (Paramount). That a talking picture about a man and his mistress could be made both mature and witty is a proposition most cinema critics would deny. Yet this is such a film, directed by Hobart Henley, feelingly played by actors from the legitimate theatre. Claudette Colbert's wide-set eyes, tender voice and Gallic smartness herein make their screen debut. Graciously she suggests the thoroughbred woman who may be kept but who will ultimately be married by any sensible keeper. The corporation lawyer so fortunate as to convert his woman into his wife is played by Walter Huston who last week delighted Manhattan in person in The Commodore Marries (see p. 18). While this couple are buffeted about by the vicissitudes of their liaison, chiefly consisting of the lawyer's bumptious children, they often run afoul of the lawyer's drinking crony (Charles Ruggles). Anyone who has ever laughed at drolleries induced by the decanter will be amused by this gentleman whose dialog is so real that it suggests the use of a dictaphone. Best shot: Claudette Colbert being told by her lover that he contemplates deserting her. Our Modern Maidens (Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer). The romantic flush of Michael Aden, the decorative gush of a Zuloaga gone mad, surround the frolics of rich U.S. youngfolk—if you would believe cinema producers. Recently Our Dancing Daughters with its imperial salons and moonswept amours caused such a flutter in nationwide breasts and box-offices that the Metro people repeated the formula with practically the same players involved. Swagger Joan Crawford tosses off cocktails with her real-and-screen husband, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., but this is no sign of fundamental joy. For the story tells you that he has betrayed her with comely Anita Page, who elegantly pantomimes a girl's first inchoate raptures. And Joan has flirted dangerously with a young diplomat for purposes of getting her husband a better job. All might have been well had not the husband's indiscretions suddenly taken an obstetrical turn. Hearing this, his wife has nothing to do but go to Paris for a divorce. There she conveniently meets the diplomat. The picture has all the proper- ties of its predecessor, but lacks the popular sentimentality. Worst shot: Rod La Rocque as the diplomat in a golf sweater which might better have been used to flag an airplane. The Hottentot (Warner Vitaphone). The Hottentot is a terrifying racing steed. He belongs to a horsey Eastern family, needs a rider in the coming steeplechase. From California comes Edward Everett Horton to visit. He loves the daughter of the house, Patsy Ruth Miller, who can love only horsey men. Timid, sedentary, Horton is no jockey, but a mutual friend tells Patsy Ruth that Horton is a famed steeplechaser. Her love for him is, of course, immediate. Horton then sustains five reels of comic discomfiture. Valiant though protesting, he attempts to ride the Hottentot, connives darkly with the butler to get rid of the beast. But then he has to promise to ride Bountiful, Patsy Ruth's own horse. Panic-stricken he feeds the horse apples and water which swell it out of drawing. She discovers him, tears flow, the race comes. With tremendous will power he secretly buys the vicious Hottentot, dons the girl's colors, rides the race after having disabused Patsy Ruth's mind as to his identity. Of course he wins both the race, the final kiss.