Fred Niblo and Norma Talmadge have dedicated a pretty love story [from the novel by the younger Alexandre Dumas] to the screen that lacks the punch to make it a standout. Dramatic intensity only twice arises to make an audience forget it is watching a picture. This is when Armand returns to his suburban cottage to find Camille has left him, and when he next meets her in a gambling parlor escorted by her first financial amour, the Baron.
For some reason Niblo omitted the traditional sympathy that goes with Camille’s death or a pull on the heart strings where she gives up Armand at the instigation of his father. For a demi-mondaine supposedly in the throes of the first and only real love of her life. Talmadge gives in much too easily as Niblo has screened it.
And through it all Talmadge looks beautiful. Never better, besides giving a sterling performance. Opposite Talmadge is Gilbert Roland. Other than Talmadge and Roland, no one shines except Harvey Clark.