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notwithstanding, it was a pictorial record we were given, not a moving dynamic art. We were allowed to look on, but we were not made to feel.
We were spectators of a strange humanity going through the monotony of the daily round, having destruction for its task in place of building ; laying waste, the chosen alternative to tillage. Come day, go day, a hopeless fortitude. A situation without origin, without objective. A confusion to which sub-titles often added instead of giving it clarity and coherence.
With Mother it was otherwise. Pudowkin soon swept us from our seats and forced us into becoming emotional participants. Nor were we allowed for one moment to retire even to the curbstone complacently to look on. We were on one side or the other. For or against.
Whether or not normally we share his morality or dissent from his politics, for the time being w^e are his. In his determinism there is no place for the realism of the onlooker, only for the reality of the participant.
To him human motive is an affect of causation. Until we not only meet but join his characters it is his object to recreate causation in us. Then we can no more withhold our sympathy than if we were reacting to personal experience. Thence their life is ours and we are carried along with them. Always he is insistent, knocking and rousing ; knocking and stimulating. Making our objective inevitably alike to theirs.
All known technique is made to subserve this end. When that fails the ceaseless pressure of his necessity mothers the inventions that make Pudowkin's technique his. There were hints by some who disliked the propaganda in Mother that the
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