In a fleeting but fierce flash of brilliance, New York Times critic André Sennwald emerged during a restless chapter in cinema history—when sound had just settled, Technicolor was rising, and the iron hand of the Hays Code began silencing silver screen boldness. At just 27, Sennwald defended daring directors like Josef von Sternberg and praised performances that dared to disturb. In under two years, he crafted over 300 sharp, stylish reviews—biting, bright, and bold—before his sudden death left a silence critics still feel. His fearless voice remains cinema’s lost echo.

STORY HIGHLIGHTS

• Appointed as New York Times film critic in October 1934 at age 27

• Died in January 1936, likely by suicide; left behind 300+ published works

• Defended The Devil Is a Woman despite its near-universal critical dismissal

• Critiqued Hollywood’s submission to the Hays Code censorship regime

• Praised auteur-led films and highlighted early works of Hitchcock and Vertov

• Revered comedians like W.C. Fields for their philosophical depth through humor

• Saw cinema as a medium evolving in multiple artistic directions at once

Every so often, a look into the past unexpectedly illuminates not only the forgotten names of history but the art they so passionately observed. The recent screening of Josef von Sternberg’s 1935 film The Devil Is a Woman prompted one such rediscovery—a brief, brilliant voice from early American film criticism whose impact was as sharp as it was fleeting: André Sennwald.

Curiosity about how The Devil Is a Woman was first received led to the New York Times archive, where a perceptive and unusually daring review stood out. The byline? André Sennwald—a name rarely mentioned in modern film circles. But further reading revealed a startling fact: Sennwald had been appointed the Times‘ lead film critic in 1934 at just 27 years old and died tragically a little over a year later in early 1936, at only 28. The cause was gas inhalation from a stove, and though never officially ruled a suicide, the suggestion lingered.

And yet, in that short span—just 16 months—Sennwald produced more than 300 published pieces. His rhythm was relentless, often writing four reviews a week plus a longer Sunday column. But what truly sets his work apart isn’t the volume—it’s the depth, courage, and foresight.

Sennwald’s career unfolded during a moment of rapid cinematic transformation. Talking pictures were still relatively new—The Lights of New York, the first all-talking feature, had premiered just six years earlier—and Hollywood was adapting fast. In June 1935, when the first full Technicolor feature, Becky Sharp, was released, Sennwald marveled at its visual boldness, though he didn’t overlook its narrative shortcomings.

“Dramatically tedious,” he wrote, “and incredibly thrilling.”

But the most profound shift during his tenure was not technological. It was ideological. In 1934, pressure from Catholic organizations—most notably the Legion of Decency—led to a crackdown on film content. The Hays Code, which had floated ambiguously for years, was suddenly being enforced with surgical strictness. Joseph Breen, appointed as chief censor, was granted sweeping authority to approve, rewrite, or ban any film script.

Sennwald watched this happen in real time and chronicled the fallout with precision and concern.

“The campaign gained amazing velocity and in a brief period had been so effectively publicized that it swept the country and shook the film city to its foundations,” he reported in early 1935.

Studios, fearing federal censorship, began bowdlerizing finished films and revamping production slates. In an interview with director Ernst Lubitsch, Sennwald captured the unease in Hollywood.

“We will be crippled in our artistic efforts to present a candid and accurate view of life,” Lubitsch warned.

And Sennwald agreed. He observed how the Hays Code did not simply encourage moral restraint but actively discouraged engagement with contemporary reality. The result, he lamented, was a new wave of films that retreated into nostalgia, glamorized patriotism, and—perhaps most troublingly—whitewashed history.

One example that drew his ire was the Civil War drama So Red the Rose, which he described as showcasing

“such moments as the enthusiastic cheering of the slaves when their master goes off to fight their liberators.”

Another was Red Salute, an anti-Communist romance starring Barbara Stanwyck, which Sennwald savaged with satire.

“If they persist in their un-American activities,” he wrote of student activists, “not only will Miss Barbara Stanwyck deny them her allegorical caresses but Mr. Robert Young will punch their noses.”

Sennwald’s biting wit did not come from a place of bitterness but rather from disappointment in a system with so much potential. He loved cinema deeply and believed it capable of more. The problem, he contended, was Hollywood’s reliance on studio-mandated formulas—stories reworked to flatter stars, dialogue diluted by committee, and scripts passed through too many hands to retain any singular voice.

He championed instead an early form of auteur theory, emphasizing collaborations where writer and director shared a vision. He praised works like The Informer and It Happened One Night, citing the fruitful alliances of Ford and Nichols, Capra and Riskin.

Still, Sennwald wasn’t blind to the brilliance that the studio system could deliver when all its parts worked in harmony. He celebrated the rise of screwball comedies, elaborate musicals, and grand literary adaptations. He recognized that the maturing technical sophistication of cinematographers, production designers, and editors was building a uniquely American cinematic vocabulary—even if bound by regulation.

His tastes stretched beyond Hollywood. He praised British filmmaker Alfred Hitchcock—then not yet a household name in the U.S.—for his deft thrillers The Man Who Knew Too Much and The Thirty-Nine Steps.

“Possessing one of the most gifted cinema brains in the world,” Sennwald wrote, “he is content to expend his talent on such unpretentious matters as espionage and detective mystery.”

He admired the innovative structure of Dziga Vertov’s Three Songs About Lenin, calling it

“a trailblazing document of vast importance to the art of the cinema.”

Comedy, too, held philosophical weight in his eyes. He saw W.C. Fields not merely as a clown, but as a truth-teller about human frustration.

“Mr. Fields traffics in high and cosmic matters relating to man’s eternal helplessness,” he wrote. “The great clowns intuitively grasp the relation between the mask of comedy and the mask of tragedy.”

Perhaps his most profound reckoning came through his engagement with Josef von Sternberg. Sennwald recognized Sternberg as a visionary director whose obsession with style often overpowered conventional narrative. The Scarlet Empress, he argued, was both a failure and a masterpiece.

“Hysterical, confused and incoherent,” he admitted, but also “the most interesting failure of the year.”

By contrast, Sennwald saw The Devil Is a Woman as a triumph. Its unapologetic portrayal of female sexual autonomy, embodied by Marlene Dietrich, was unlike anything Hollywood had produced.

“Sternberg makes a cruel and mocking assault upon the romantic sex motif which Hollywood has been gravely celebrating all these years,” Sennwald wrote, recognizing it as both critique and celebration of cinema itself.

He also acknowledged how isolated he was in this view.

“It is with no pride whatsoever that I say that I appear to be the only film reviewer in America who doesn’t consider Josef von Sternberg a charlatan.”

Seven months later, he was gone. He missed the dawn of a new cinematic age: Modern Times, Bringing Up Baby, Stagecoach, and Citizen Kane—films he would have likely embraced, analyzed, and perhaps even helped shape with his writing. The studio machine moved forward, faster than ever, often chewing up what stood in its way. But sometimes, one voice breaks through.

André Sennwald was one of those voices—brief, brilliant, and impossible to ignore.