Close Up (Jul-Nov 1927)

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CLOSE UP tant eyes. And again our tails wagged. So much of it was again trash, but there was what we called a quality. Morbid, some said. We said not a bit of it, REAL. And there were moments that made us gulp more or less because we felt that if that level coiild be sustained we would forget to breathe. But it was only a glimpse here and there. The Germanic thing was getting across though, curious details, watchfulness, harking on claustrophobia. We filed Germany for future reference and peeped at Vienna. Here again was tripe. HolbAvood was better. Itaty a shade worse. France tied up in knots on problems of continuity. Wliile England trundled deplorably in wake, the only thing that could be said for it that it didn't seem to mind being a laughing stock. Then we began to hear from Russia. We had got very sick of Russian novels and Russian plays, and in spite of a recrudescence of Russian influence in art and decoration, there was prejudice. But Potemkin and Aelita put an end to that. Russia was getting its finger on something. And Germany had done Jojdess Street, so back we bounced to the Germanic thing. Hollywood gave The Big Parade, Germany, Metropolis, England it seemed was still being comic, and did Mons, while Italy, having done Quo Vadis churned out the unspeakably atrocious Last Days of Pompei. France had finally somewhat ponderoush^ dished out Victor Hugo and ]\Iichel Strogoff, and some perfectly uninspired eighteenth centurj^ films more authentic but less suave than HoU^^ood attempts at the same thing. However it had evolved the best colour process and was hard at work with experimental stuff. 7