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Git along, little dogies, git along.
Dogics, I explain, lest a watchful proof-reader turn it to "doggies, are young cattle.
The tunes, songs, accents, speech, habits, dress, life and customs of the greatest part of America lie untouched, unreflected, by Hollywood. Why? Possibly because the screen is not the stage; the critical camera-eye won't allow the making-up of grease-paint actors into these roles as the stage might. You must go out into the lands and film the people themselves. And Hollywood is much too occupied with production schedules ever to go farther away from Hollywood than a suburban location. Catalina Island for sea-shots is the farthest north in exploration for American films — and ii this ignores completely the fisher-folk of Nova Scotia and Boston, or the oystermen of Connecticut and Long Island, no one knows except a few people who live in those latter places.
Of course, production of real pictures would take stamina and fortitude, and lots of it. We haven't got brave producers. We haven't a producer here who would dare to give the world a picture of the negro as anything but a musical-comedy figure of trite jollity. Who will film the tragedy of the American negro? No one — for not even our Emperor Jones just filmed independently is aught but a stagedrama with a celluloid coating.
The only film, as a type, that has any real authority is our muchscorned Western. At least there, if you have banality of plot, you have some of the stone and gravel and grassland of America thrown in as incidentals. But, remember, this is only a small portion of the United States, the cowboy West. Millions of Americans have never seen it — it is as far away from the millhands of Brockton, Massachusetts, and Connecticut as it is from the shipyard workers of the Tyneside. And it is dying so fast that it will be one with the rock in another decade.
Apart from Westerns, what films have been really American? Some of the " historical, " such as The Covered Wagon and Cimarron, have recreated the past. And what attraction there was in resuscitating a truth that was!
/ am a Fugitive was a real film — if a bad one for export. It was an internal matter — an intramural attack on one of the flagrant injustices that flourish in this land. (The ignorance and cruelty ol decadent whites in Georgia had long been attacked by newspapers of courage, such as the late "New York World.") The film was an odd affair for Hollywood to tackle and it raised polite Hades. I'm glad Britishers saw that; for even if it showed an ugly bit of American life, it showed, too, that there lives here the courage and desire to exterminate it. The Governor of Georgia was quite upset about it all.
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