ABSTRACT
Most depressing, and I don't believe it. Here Mr. Huxley is a little inhuman, as he is in his attack on the talkies and movies-attacking them from the basis of the world's worst film (Al Jolson's beastly Mammy sentimentalism) seen in Paris, where there has been a trade blockade for months of American films, where German and Russian films appear ruthlessly cut, where the native producers seem to me mostly imbeciles, who have never grasped the elements of film production. (If you are ever tempted to go to a Jean Epstein film, don't.) The movies are part of the life of our time, and I refuse to clip that little head from my hydra because Mr. Huxley objects to the merchants of film production. I might just as well object to his book because it is printed by a machine and not exquisitely calligraphed by hand. The camera can produce results as surprising and beautiful as those of paint and brushes. If Mr. Huxley disbelieves this, let him go and see what Mr. Man Ray can do. Besides, the mere rhythm of action and vitality in films like Tempest over Asia and The Mad Czar is enough to refute Mr. Huxley's criticismsor prejudices.
