In films of bandit life, the heroes from beginning to end shoot out of automatic pistols and machine-guns, portable and stationary. There are frequent pursuits in automobiles. The machines never fail to swerve off the road as they turn a corner, which constitutes the chief artistic detail of the picture. Such films require a large cast. Scores of actors are eliminated from the list of characters at the very beginning of the play. They are killed by other dramatic personage. It is said that these films resemble life itself very much except for one thing: real gangsters who raid banks and abduct the children of millionaires have never even ventured to dream of profits as large as those garnered from films of their life.

Finally, there is the film with the participation of an operatic singer. Here, you must understand there is no reason whatever for embarrassment. Who would ever think of expecting an operatic singer to act like the elder Coquelin! The singer does not know how to act and does not wish to act. He wants to sing. And that legitimate desire must be satisfied, especially since the spectators themselves want the famous singer to sing as much as possible. Thus, here, too, the plot is of no moment. Usually, a story somewhat like this is unfolded: A poor young man (you'd want him, of course, to be handsome, but here you have to lake into consideration the appearance of the singer—a bit of a paunch, pouches under the eyes, short legs) is studying singing but has no success. Why he has no success it is impossible to understand, because at the beginning of his training he sings just as remarkably as at the zenith of his fame. But then appears a young and beautiful Maecenas who brings the singer out. At once he lands in Metropolitan Opera, and has a colossal, incredible, dizzying, miraculous, and supernatural success, the kind of success which even Chaliapin did not dream of at the zenith of his career. There is only one variant of this: the success may be attained not by a man singer but by a woman singer, but then, in accordance with Shakespeare's laws of the drama, the role of the Maecenas is played no longer by a woman but by a wealthy and attractive man. Both variations are accepted by the public with equal joy. But the main thing is popular arias, which are rendered as the action proceeds. It is best that the arias be from Pagliacci, La Boheme, or Rigoletto. That's what the public likes.

In all the four standard types unity of style is preserved. No matter what the Hollywood actress plays, whether it is the sweetheart of a Crusader, the bride of a Huguenot or a contemporary American girl, her coiffure is always in the very latest fashion. Horizontal permanency lies equally on I the Huguenot and on the medieval head. In that Hollywood refuses to compromise. One may yield to history on any other point—if you insist on poleaxes or halberds or anything else like that, you shall have your poleaxes or halberds and the like. But curls must be arranged as called for in the current year. That's what the public likes. The Middle Ages are numerous, so it does not pay to change the coiffure for their sake. But, of course, if it should change during the current year, then it will be necessary to rearrange the hair according to the fashion of that year.

All the historical dramas portray against a variety of backgrounds one and the same frigid American love. At times against the background of conquering the Holy Sepulchre, at times against the background of the burning of Rome by Nero, at times against the background of cardboard Scandinavian castles.

Besides the main standard types, there are several secondary ones, as, for example, pictures with child prodigies. That is all a matter of chance. It is necessary to find a talented child. At the moment there happens to be such a gifted child, the little girl Shirley Temple. There is only one children's plot—the child brings happiness to the grown-ups. So, the five- or six-year-old girl is forced to be photographed in several pictures in order to bring happiness to her parents, who with their daughter earn as much as if she were an oil well that suddenly began to spout.

Besides, occasionally there are pictures of working-class life. In that case, it is some utterly vile Fascist concoction. In a little town of the South, where the trees rustle idyllically and the street lamps shine peacefully, we saw a picture called Riffraff. In it was portrayed a worker who went against his boss and the boss's company union. The impudent worker became a tramp. He fell quite low. Later he returned to his boss, a giddy and prodigal son. He confessed the errors of his ways and was accepted with open arms.

The cultured American does not recognize his native motion pictures as an art. More than that, he will tell you that the American motion picture is a moral epidemic, no less harmful and dangerous than scarlet fever or the plague. All the superior attainments of American culture— schools, universities, literature, the theatre—all of it has been hurt and stunned by motion pictures. If you believe him, one may be a fine and clever boy, study well in school, pass through his university course brilliantly—yet after several years of regular attendance at motion-picture theatres turn into an idiot.

We felt all of this even on the road to Hollywood.

When we returned to our hotel after our first stroll (we stayed by strange coincidence on Hollywood Boulevard, in Hotel Hollywood, located in the city of Hollywood—one surely could not think of anything more Hollywoody), we stopped at the window of a pet shop. Here, in a litter of finely cut newspaper, ugly and kindly puppies were playing. They rushed at the window, barked, embraced each other, and in general gave themselves over to their little canine joys. In another show window, in a cage, sat a tiny monkey with an even tinier newborn monkey in its arms. The mother was slightly bigger than a cat, while the baby was quite microscopic, pink, naked, evoking pity. Mamma tenderly licked her child, fed it, stroked its head, did not take her eyes off it. She paid no attention whatever to the spectators. Here was the epitome of motherhood.

Nevertheless, never in our life had we seen a more vicious caricature of mother love. All of it very much resembled what people do, but at the same time, for some inexplicable reason it was so unpleasant that the large crowd which gathered at the show window did not utter a single word. On the faces of all were peculiar, embarrassed smiles.

It was an effort for us to turn away from the monkey show window.

Then we acknowledged to each other that, looking at the monkey with the child, we thought of the American motion picture. It looks like real art even as monkey love for its offspring looks like human love for children. It looks like it, yet at the same time it is unendurably disgusting.

36 The God of Potboilers

THE WINDOWS of our room looked out on Hollywood Boulevard. At one corner of the street crossing was a drug-store, on another was a bank. Beyond the bank loomed a new building. The entire facade of that building was covered with the electric letters: "Max Factor."

Many years ago Max Factor, a young man in torn trousers, came from the south of Russia to America. Without much ado, Max Factor began to make theatrical make-up and perfumery. Before long, all the forty-eight united states noticed that the production of Mr. Factor began to conquer the market. Money flowed to Max from all sides. At present Max is incredibly wealthy and likes to regale his visitors with the enchanting story of his life. And if the visitor happens to be from Yelizavetgrad, Nikolayev, or Kherson, then he may be sure that the happy host will make him take as a souvenir a large jar of face cream or a set of artificial eyelashes which have the best recommendation of Marlene Dietrich or Marion Davies. Not long ago Factor celebrated some kind of anniversary —it was either in honour of the twenty years of his fruitful activity on the make-up front or an annual celebration of his successful landing on American soil. The invitations for that celebration were the most complex and the richest constructions of vellum paper, splendid and shining cardboard, high-grade cellophane, and steel springs. They were thick albums, the pretentious text of which announced to the addressee that they have the honour to invite him and that he has the honour to be invited. But at the fast moment the hospitable Factor was evidently doubtful whether he would be understood. Therefore, on the cover he printed in large letters,: "Invitation."