The Obverse.

And then Fattie Arbuckle, the idol of millions, killed a woman under revolting circumstances. The world was staggered. And Hollywood asked itself what manner of men and women were these strange beings who had descended upon them.

And so the sordid story continues—a fantastic story of vice and crime, of ruthlessness and wrecked lives, a story of how art is debased by Capitalism. The box office records are the sole criteria of success for a picture; reward is showered on people entirely disproportionately to their value; and the profit motif dominates the whole.

"Dare we produce Shakespeare?" ask Hollywood directors. "The public won't like it, No!" their colleagues reply, "But if we dress it up a bit—if we introduce a song and dance here, and put Joe E. Brown in a comedy part there, and cut out this act entirely, and make a happy ending—the public'll revel in it." And the public watch the song and dance, and Joe E. Brown, and glow with self-satisfaction. "We're watching Shakespeare," they think, "you know—the great playwright. This is uplift—we're being uplifted. Isn't it nice?"

Pitiful incidents that stand out in "Promised Land" are the tragic suicide of the girl with the disfigured face who loved the famous movie star (itself a sufficient theme for a "hit" picture): the financial ruin of Ma Laurie who held on to her eleven lots of land in the heart of Hollywood until she was a millionaire—in land; and the story of Helen, whose only crime was that she complained of being mauled by a drunken salesman at a party held by movie" chiefs."

Hollywood might have been a Hellcon: it is now a Gomorrah. And what Capitalism has done to Hollywood it can do to the world.

—R.L.M.