We have our cinema theatres in England in some abundance, but the cinema
is not yet in the blood here as in America. In America picture-palaces
are palaces indeed--with gold and marble, and mural decorations, built
to seat thousands--and every newspaper has its cinema page, where the
activities of the movie stars in their courses are chronicled every
morning. Moreover, America is the home of the industry; and rightly so,
for it has, I should say, been abundantly proved that Americans are
the only people who really understand both cinema acting and cinema
production. Italy, France and England make a few pictures, but their
efforts are half-hearted: not only because acting for the film is a
new and separate art, but because atmospheric conditions are better in
America than in Europe.
It was in Chicago that I had my only opportunity of seeing cinema stars
in the flesh. The rain falling, as it seems to do there with no more
effort or fatigue to itself than in Manchester, I had, one afternoon,
to change my outdoor plans and take refuge at the matinee of a musical
comedy called "Sometime," with Frank Tinney in the leading part. Tinney,
I may say, during his engagement in London some years ago, became
so great a favourite that one performer has been flourishing on an
imitation of him ever since. The play had been in progress only for a
few minutes when Frank, in his capacity as a theatre doorkeeper, was
presented by his manager with a tip. A dialogue, which to the trained
ear was obviously more or less an improvisation, then followed:
_Manager_: "What will you do with that dollar, Frank?"
_Frank_: "I shall go to the movies. I always go to the movies when
there's a Norma Talmadge picture. Ask me why I always go to the movies
when there's a Norma Talmadge picture."
_Manager_: "Why do you always go to the movies when there's a Norma
Talmadge picture, Frank?"
_Frank_: "I go because, I go because she's my favourite actress.
(_Applause_.) Ask me why Norma Talmadge is my favourite actress."
_Manager_: "Why is Norma Talmadge your favourite actress, Frank?"
_Frank_: "Norma Talmadge is my favourite actress because she is always
saving her honour. I've seen her saving it seventeen times. (_To the
audience_) You like Norma Talmadge, don't you?" (_Applause from the
audience_.)
_Frank_: "Then wouldn't you like to see her as she really is? (_To
a lady sitting with friends in a box_.) Stand up, Norma, and let the
audience see you."
_Here a slim lady with a tense, eager, pale face and a mass of hair
stood up and bowed. Immense enthusiasm_.
_Frank_: "That's Norma Talmadge. You do like saving your honour, don't
you, Norma? And now (_to the audience_) wouldn't you like to see Norma's
little sister, Constance? (_More applause_.) Stand up, Constance, and
let the audience see you."
Here another slim lady bowed her acknowledgments and the play was
permitted to proceed.
What America is going to do with the cinema remains to be seen, but
I, for one, deplore the modern tendency of novelists to be lured
by American money to write for it. If the cinema wants stories from
novelists let it take them from the printed books. One has but to
reflect upon what might have happened had the cinema been invented a
hundred years ago, to realise my disturbance of mind. With Mr. Lasky's
millions to tempt them Dickens would have written "David Copperfield"
and Thackeray "Vanity Fair," not for their publishers and as an
endowment to millions of grateful readers in perpetuity, but as plots
for the immediate necessity of the film, with a transitory life of a
few months in dark rooms. Of what new "David Copperfields" and "Vanity
Fairs" the cinema is to rob us we shall not know; but I hold that
the novelist who can write a living book is a traitor to his art and
conscience if he prefers the easy money of the film. Readers are to be
considered before the frequenters of Picture Palaces. His privilege
is to beguile and amuse and refresh through the ages: not to snatch
momentary triumphs and disappear.
The evidence of the moment is more on the side of the pessimist than
the optimist. I found in America no trace of interest in such valuable
records as the Kearton pictures of African jungle life or the Ponting
records of the Arctic Zone. For the moment the whole energy of the
gigantic cinema industry seemed to be directed towards the filming
of human stories and the completest beguilement, without the faintest
infusion of instruction or idealism, of the many-headed mob. In short,
to provide "dope." Whether so much "dope" is desirable, is the question
to be answered. That poor human nature needs a certain amount, is beyond
doubt. But so much? And do we all need it, or at any rate deserve it? is
another question. Sometimes indeed I wonder whether those of us who have
our full share of senses ought to go to the cinema at all. It may be
that its true purpose is to be the dramatist of the deaf.