The Cine Technician (1943 - 1945)

.1 THE CINETECHNICIAN May — June, 1944 STRAWS IN THE HAIR by SCREENCOMBER of the Kinematograpli Weekly Illustrated bv Land How It Began It has often been asked how I, a humble black pudding bleacher, came to found the mighty A.C.T. Hitherto, for security reasons, it lias been impossible even to hint at certain of the details. The full facts of the secret meeting between Churchill, Stalin, A. J. Rank, Widgey, Newman, Uncle Tom Cobleigh and me — must wait until after the war. Whackpickle and myself were discussing a remedy for the spots on giraffes' necks over, strangely enough, a cup of coffee. You wouldn't know Whackpickle, but he was always one to digress and I had to point out to him gently thai all tins was hardly relative to the Mulbridge Report on the trend of the wearing of brighter bowlers among Chilean marble players. It was then I remembered young Elvin, a poor cheese sorter, poor, let me add. in the financial rather than the technical sense, for Elvin had picked up the rudiments of cheese sorting from years of association with various renting concerns and was an adept at the art — may I again digress to say that I still cherish a delicate little model of the Taj Mahal, laboriously carved by young Elvin out of a piece of gorganzola. T use the adjective " delicate " in the material rather than the olfactory sense. Nor will I forget the drama of the day when Elvin walked into my office under the second table of the Intrepid Fox. ' Meet Mr. Spilpudding, " he said, and nonchalantly replacing his nose clip, he went back to his cheese paring, which has often caused me to wonder whether some of our producers' ideas of wage agreements could not be traced back to an earlier apprenticeship tmder young Elvin. A Critic of a Critic of the Critics. With their customary humility and kindly toleration, the critics have meekly accepted the criticisms of the rascally Frank Sainsbury. Nor will they permit bitterness or rage to change the serenity of their shining faces. Like the kind good Christian gentlemen they are, they bow patiently before the libelous onslaught, ignoring the threshings and the frothings of a hate-distorted brain. Nay, one must go farther. They are the first to rise in defence of their persecutor. To the suggestion that he drinks has own bathwater, tl gently point out that such stories are evilly inspired and obviously untrue for to do so would mean that he must first make a practice of bathing. Neither will they allow that it is his habit to take the pennies out of blind mens' cans, for the blind. gifted with a strange sixth sense, invariably empty their cans of coppers when Mr. Sainsbury is in the vicinity. This lack of rancour or spleen is rather lovely to behold in a world torn with hatred and envy. And we have yet to meet the one among them whi any desire to kick Mr. Sainsbury in the face— after all, tlie\ sa^ , there are many more accessible and much more vulnerable spots for them to choos. . Failing a defence by themselves, however, we must take up the role of St. George to the persecuted maiden, for to us the critics are sacred. like the cows of India or the baboons of its Temples. The sadist Sainsbury, having no knowledgi of fair play, is probably more at home with a corkscrew than a straight bat, but he hits below the belt when he gets on to the distressing subject • snoozing at press shows. Come. Mr. Sainsbury. is not this rather like jeering at a deformity or infirmity ? Or maybe you are ignorant of the painful outbreak of insomnia among critics since Tunisian Victory and other war subjects I blasted them in the very quiet of their theatres into a chronic state of sleeplessness. Wasn't it "Ryron who wrote? As from yon sparkling glass the wearied critic sips. Be tolerant, my lovely one, lest you go too far And ere the tasty morsel shall reach those drooling lips Snatch not away, cruel taunter, the las' caviar,