Close Up (Jan-Jun 1929)

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CLOSE UP THE FUTURE OF THE BRITISH CINEMA Mine is an after-dinner Muse. Its inspiration is Benedictine. In consequence, I claim to be uniquely favoured in the contemplation of British films. Only the gourmand can smell Wardour Street and retain optimism. The rest just see it and die. Last month's Close Up was a stimulating affair, anyway. I retreated with it to one of Soho's few restaurants where it is possible to dine without rubbing shoulders with film travellers, film renters, film exploiteers, film publicists, film critics, film exhibitors, film producers, film actors, and the other gentlemen who make the British cinema what it is. Having read my own article first, with that natural egotism inherent in every creative artist, even if he is only a hack writer, I rose, by arithmetic progression, to the many excellent tilts at the English armoury contained in the remarks of Messrs. Macpherson and Potamkin. After which I felt better. Wardour Street, geographically at my elbow, was mentally below the horizon. No longer was I in an atmosphere of misapplied superlatives and bad c 33