Word: fogged
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Feverish bustle, anxious conjecture filled Buckingham Palace on election day this week. Outside, London wallowed in a yellow pea-soup fog. Below stairs, Royal scullery, parlor and chamber maids made no secret of their voting intentions as they hustled into bonnet and wrap, groped in a body out the fogbound back gate. Two footmen, the Palace womenfolk considered, were the only possible waverers. They had expressed Socialist opinions at the height of a servants' ball last year, but not since. One of these very footmen brought to the Royal study the latest newspapers for which George V repeatedly buzzed...
Physical guidance of voters to polls through England's election soup was the frantic problem of candidates. Ding-donging down the city streets and even country lanes party workers cried, "Follow the bell!" Hastily posted paper arrows on sidewalks pointed pollwards. But fog effects could not be defeated. Voting was the slowest in years...
Publicity-wise Major Doolittle had made his first stop at Washington so the flight could be the first to link all three North American capitals in a single day. That visit cost him 40 min. flying time while he hunted in vain for fog-bound Bolling Field, finally put down on Washington-Hoover Airport. He stopped for fuel twice again, at Birmingham and Corpus Christi, Tex. The whole day's 2,500-mi. flight he described as "uninteresting" save for the thrill of landing his high speed plane in the rarefied atmosphere of Mexico City...
...ahead of the steamer (TIME, Sept. 21). The Bremen's mail should be there 30 hr. ahead of time. The catapult on the Bremen's sundeck whirred; the plane shot into the sky 1,300 mi. northeast of Ambrose Lightship and flew on into rain, fog & headwind. At dark she alighted for a moment on Glace Bay Harbor to check position with a fishing boat; at 9 p. m. she put down on Sydney Harbor with ten minutes' fuel supply in her tanks; at midnight, refueled, she flew on again in the darkness...
Perhaps there is less of artistry, but whatever with modesty has been attempted has with deftness been accomplished. There is never a straining after effect. There are no steep camera angles, no fog-shrouded skylines, no philosophical implications. And yet by means of a shifting background of figures, director Borzage has surrounded his isolated principals, absorbed in their own affairs, with the reality of city life. Up and down the tenement stairs pass these people -- a drunk, piloting himself upward with splendid balance, and a street-walker hurrying to receive a caller, while below a gray-faced little woman phones...