The soul of the moving picture (1924)

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116 The Soul of the Moving Picture The bow of the passions is a mighty one, great in compass and more frequently taut than not. It rises from out of the primeval abysses of nature and takes in the tenderest tremblings of the soul. Anyone who has ever seen that wonderful Goldwyn film entitled Honor Thy Mother knows that by passions I mean, not merely what is ordinarily connoted by the term, but also that calm, melancholy faith of the heart which characterizes all reverential and respectful people. Every impulse that arises in a perfectly natural way, and which cannot be separated from the heart by any power on earth, is a passion. Everything that is an initial, original, and uninfluenced impulse is stuff for the motion picture. But just as all art moves about a certain pole, about that basic impulse which flouts reason in the exercise of the drawing force that one man has for another, and that pulls them both along toward the inescapable judgment handed down by the senses, just so does the motion picture itself obey the urge, and that with unconscious docility, to move on to the fate that finds its basis in human love, and in so doing it moves on to the highest, unexhausted, and inexhaustible goal — its eventual formation and conformation. To such love the coldly and exclusively intellectual is alien. There is no place for the blue-stock