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"fans ate "fools, Cc)ioU avib fioote, @ut*
From Salome To Pavlova — They All Lived On Human Hearts
"Once I Loved Marlene Dietrich's Legs— Now I Hate Her Buttonless Trousers"
Mr. N. G Jog
A woman is only a woman but a good cigar is a smoke. And what would be a star without a fan? Not even a woman.
In the great industry of screen glamour the fan is at once the hero and the villain. For his enjoyment stars are born. To please him do the scouts scour the distant corners of the globe and discover raw material, which has to be shorn and plucked, groomed and grounded, before it can pass as a streamlined product on the silver screen, labelled as "IT'' or "OOMPH" or some other scream.
And now the poor fan, who ultimately has to pay for all those protracted and costly processes by which the utterly commonplace goose is metamorphosed into the "Swan Celestial" is himself put into the dock by the critics. He is accused of want of manners or rather of having very offensive manners. He annoys the stars by his unwanted attentions; he pesters them with lust breathing fan-mail; and sometimes he even persecutes them in person with his amorous advances.
Fans, where are your manners? Fans, why do you hang around open-mouthed at studio doors? Fans, why do you carry those colossal bouquets to the premiers of the super-supers of your idols?
Fans, why are you fans?
But, ragging aside, what else can the poor fan do? He has to be true to his genus or lose his identity altogether. In the latter casD it means making the world fan
By: N. G. J03
less. And as I observed at the outset; No fans, no stars!
THE VISION IN THE DARKNESS!
I do not desire to discuss here whether the cinema is mainly a
To the writer Marlene's legs were once legendary but now — alas!
means of popular enjoyment or whether we should have pictures with a purpose. I shall for the present content myself with the observation that the phenomenal pro
gress of the silver screen was primarily due to its ability to serve as a perfect vehicle of emotional escapism for men and women and children and adults and for the poor as well as the rich.
No sooner the lights go out and one's favourite hero or heroine or villain comes on the screen, one can surrender oneself entirely to the swift-moving tempo of the story. One can in fact leave one's mortal frame altogether (as the Yogis are reported to have been doing) and for a brief, hectic time live in the life of another. We can laugh and weep, flirt and love, win and lose, and do everything that in our humdrum life we have always day dreamed of doing. We can leap right through the Keatsian "charmed magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn."
The sudden switching on of the lights and the strains of "God Save The King" bring us to our feet — and to our senses. But not quite! We are no doubt rudely awakened out of the etherealised existence but cur memory still clings to the vesUgi cf unreality. The flight of imagination beyond space and time might have been unreal but at any rate the s'ars in the screen firmament are very much real. They are alive, vital, human. Surely we can catch them by the hand. At any rate lay our hearts at their feet.
At that very moment a fan Is born. He is an amorphous creature and therefore amoral. He is
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