Edith M. Hull’s novel, preposterous and ridiculous as it was, won out because it dealt with every caged woman’s desire to be caught up in a love clasp by some he-man who would take the responsibility and dispose of the consequences, but Monte M. Katterjohn’s scenario hasn’t even that to recommend it. He has safely deleted most of the punch, and what they missed George Melford manages by inept direction of the big scenes.
Lady Diana has gone alone into the desert with a native guide only to be captured by a young sheik and he detains her in his palace of a tent, and that is all.
The acting could not be worse than the story, but it is bad enough. Valentino is revealed as a player without resource. He depicts the fundamental emotions of the Arabian sheik chiefly by showing his teeth and rolling his eyes, while Agnes Ayres looks too matronly to lend much kick to the situation in which she finds herself.