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People are not entertained by the little home that is going to be sold up, or by the One Condition the rich man makes before promising not to hand over the erring brother to the police. Nor by the untimely hour of night at which the spotless heroine pays her call to plead for him. .... If I'm not careful Til be giving people ideas for yet more entertainment along the smoothly running railway lines of good scenarios.
People, I say, are not entertained by these and their twin stock-in-trade screen, situations. They accept them, tolerate them, comment on them. Isn't she sweet, isn't he a brute, hasn't she a sad face. What actually does happen is this. Four-fifths of the cinema public goes to the cinema as escape, or rest, or refuge from rain, boredom, dullness, strain, sorrow, hate. The cinema, in other words, is a palliative to them. Somewhere where they can sink, so to speak, to their intellectual lowest, where they can brood, dream, drift, pick up and discard fragments of thoughts and plans, get out of themselves into the strangely potent drug of dark and light and music. All these naturally need no more than what they get. They think that people like myself are an untimely nuisance, and that the movies are perfect as they are. I myself have staggered from the rarified beauty of Soviet films, feeling that the only thing I can bear, the only thing I can look at will be one of those utterly bad, facile, brilliant Hollywood comedies, charming antidote to greatness. There is the thing in a nutshell. People stagger to the movies in this way, to get away from themselves, from problems they have gnawed to bits, and worries worn shapeless. Obliteration of identity is the cinema's great gift.
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