We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
the staff of the board of examiners. It was he who received and dealt in the first place with any complaints — and at first there were many — discussed them between the complaining film dignitaries and the examiners concerned, and in the last resource put the case before the official censor.
I remember when, very many years later, he told me in confidence that he had found a beautiful old house which he believed he could secure; one which would be a worthy home for the British Board and be a credit to it not only in the eyes of the film trade in this country but also of all the visitors from other lands who came over here, as they occasionally did, to study our censorship methods. He took me to see it. It was a kind of furniture repository at the time but even so I could see that it was a wonderful old building, a beautiful house built by Christopher Wren and the Adams. I shared his enthusiasm though I wondered a little where the money was to come from.
However, he bought it himself at a very moderate price and the old furniture was cleared away. Then people began to hear about it and almost immediately he was offered a price which would have showed him a tremendous profit on his outlay. He refused. He furnished the whole place in keeping with its style and antiquity, got his staff installed — and then turned it over to the Board at exactly the price he had paid for it.
I think that was the proudest moment in his life, and I know that his very heart was in that building; the crowning monument of his whole career. It was called Carlisle House at the end of Carlisle Street, Soho Square. Incidentally, it was the house selected by Charles Dickens as the home of Dr. Manette in The Tale of Two Cities.
One night, in the middle of the war, a bomb dropped upon it and smashed it to a mere heap of rubble: not one brick was left standing upon another in its proper place. I heard about the calamity early next morning and hurried round in the hope of intercepting poor old Brookie and breaking the news to him before he came upon it unawares. I thought it would kill him for he was an old man by then. But I was too late to help him. I found him seated on a kitchen chair at the corner of Carlisle Street, calm and gentle, waiting to give directions to the staff as they arrived to 'work'!
I sometimes wonder whether it would be any exaggeration to
no