Forget the obscure Genina, this is a photographer's movie, from the fluid location shooting at the start to the strikingly lit finale of murder in a preview theatre. Most beguiling is the camera's love affair with the face of Louise Brooks, whose eyes retain their sparkle no matter how faded the print. She plays a typist whose progress from beauty queen to film star alienates her working class boyfriend, who kills her with his ignominiously tiny pistol. Although beset by a possessive lover, by showbiz exploiters and, in a remarkable funfair scene, by humanity generally, Brooks is so sheerly, dominatingly vivacious that oppression hardly seems an issue. The ending - Brooks dead in the stalls, her image alive on screen - will be more resonant now than in 1930.