Mary Pickford tried to change her image as "America's Sweetheart" with Coquette, and while she deserves points for trying, it must be said that the end result is not worth the effort. The film itself is simply dreadful, a simplistic, clichéd, unconvincing, and ultimately irritating melodrama. It may have worked better when performed live on Broadway -- its stage-bound origins are painfully clear -- but it's a misfire on the screen. It's hard to know which part of the screenplay to denigrate first -- the tiresome dialogue, the mechanical plot, the paper-thin characterizations or the implausible twists. Sam Taylor's pedestrian direction does not help, nor do the irksome supporting performances of Johnny Mack Brown and William Janney, the latter turning in one of the most annoying "juvenile" performances on record. Matt Moore and John St. Polis manage to acquit themselves fairly decently, but star Pickford does herself in almost from the word go. Still an attractive and appealing presence, she's also far from the teenaged girl she's supposed to be. Much worse, however, is the fact that her performance is simply galling; she pushes at almost every opportunity, telegraphing upcoming emotional outbursts through those big eyes and playing so hard for tears that she produces laughter instead. Pickford's undeserving Oscar for Coquette started an unfortunate trend -- recognizing artists for their lifetime achievements by rewarding them for inferior work.