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among themselves, there is no need for this retrogression, the manacled, slave-driven genius turns happily to sound, seeing already beyond the tap of feet outside to counterpoint view of an empty room, beyond firebells, beyond the dripping water-tap. Is not the fancy-dress Caesar already using the
lapping of rivers, the soughing of rain ? But the
genius knows there is no place for him yet. Al Jolson has still to make a greater singing fool of himself. Dolores Costello has yet to be filtered to something at least as quiet as a saw-mill. No wonder the genius weeps.
^ *
Then over this sullen sky shone one apocalyptic line of light. Erno Metzner made Uberfall, and the way of the genius director was pointed. And, as quickly, the apocalyptic ray was snuffed bv the censor — the one man who believes that Justice is blind and works accordingly. Uberfall was a message of hope. A way out, a pass, a defile. It presented new form for the short film. And, as yet, there is nothing to be done to the meddlers who have power to forbid it.
Such are the ram's thoughts on his birthdav. Not gay, you have seen. A little too discouraged perhaps. But the thought-reader was wrong about vibrations of defeat, and the ram is not asking for silent films again, though it looks uncommonly like it. He is asking for intelligent sound films. He has seen his friends hurt, and would willingly hasten to his butting. The year ahead is already licked bv war as a house bv flames.
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