Gavotte.

A few bars of music, and the whole scene lives again. A gavotte by Gluck - I don't know its name - I heard it on the wire-less about time, and now it is associated indissolubly with that August afternoon.

It had been raining drizzling miserably cold. I had been feeding hay to the cows - there they were standing round on the soaked grass, munohing, munching loudly in the sudden stillness, for the rain had stopped. There was a break in the clouds over in the west above the mountains - the sun flowed through a gleaming haze," braiding the tattered edges of the grey-black cloud with a fringe of dazzling silver, while streaming raye transformed the wet trees and hills below, gliding the dripping and the hushed leaves in sudden liquid magnificence. A bird's lyrical note echoing, and the cows munching hay- the scent of the hay - warm and dry..... The notes of remembered music ecstatically and the whole scene throbs; with life. Peace.... the cows placid contented at their hay nature resting breathless gasping after the rain.... Peace....

And it was just at that time that war was throwing the world into another mad frenzy of ignorant hatred - the music recalls that, too - not so vividly - [unclear: me rely] the dazed feeling - the frustrated fury at the madness of those responsible - a stunned, almost [unclear: so thing] determination to resist their vile hymns of hate. That music - its whispered message, is not hate, though hate fills, the columns of a, delirious press. "We must hate Germans"'- Gluck was a German - we must hate Gluck -we must hate Gluck's countrymen.' Oh! mad! mad! mad!...

And here was nature in garb of lambent glory, gilded by the fingers of the sun as life is gilded by youthful dreams - until the war destroyed it all - destroyed it all. The vision is fading - the Clouds have imprisoned the sun once more behind their grim black veil - the fields are wot and cold - a shivering breeze - the vision has gone. But the war - keeps on.

Georges da la Tour Noire.

October.

The Photographic Club's screening of "October" recently was probably for many of us a first introduction to Soviet Cinema. From the very beginning the Soviet leaders have recognised its importance. The decree Nationalising the cinema industry was signed by Lenin as early as August, 1919, and from that time onward, cinema operators have recorded every phase of the joys and sorrows of the U. S.S.R. The heroes of these" films were the masses. Lenin himself once said, pointing to the workers and peasants gathered near the. Kshesinska palace in Petrograd in 1917, "Film them, for they are making history!" This attitude has not been confined to the U.S.S.R although it was there that it had its beginnings. In England, for example, it has become the ever-growing Documentary movement.

"October" is perhaps the supreme example of a film without hero or plot. In it Eisenstein has succeeded in finding high artistic form for the most stirring deeds and ideas of the people's Revolution. As he himself says, his endeavour is "To put an [unclear: and] to the conflicts between the language of logic, the system of concepts, page break and the language of images". Though he had made two previous films, "The Strike", and "Battleship Potemkin", it was in "October" that his concepts reached completeness.

The film was not without its faults, even allowing for the limited resources available to the Soviet cinema to grapher in 1927. Eisenstein himself has repudiated the film as being without emotion. Nevertheless, it is seldom that anything as good appears on a Wellington screen. Even in such films as "The Grapes of Wrath", and "The Good Earth", the characters lack the reality of those of "October". To some of us, the presence of so much unwashed humanity on one screen was somewhat of a shock, and seldom have dead people looked so terribly dead as the girl left on the rising bridge. Particularly notable was the architecture of the film. After the lath and plaster of American and European studios, the solidity of the buildings and statues was immediately apparent.

If it is necessary to single out one portion of the film as being "the best", the honour will have to go to the scene in which the bridge is raised, cutting off the workers' quarters from the centre of the city. The reflections on the girders of the bridge - the running feet - the rails of the tramway - the horse -the dead [unclear: girl's]- The cutting grows more rapid, the movement ceases. The cor of the girl, a small white speck, slides down the grey expanse of the bridge. The dead horse splashes into the river.

Notable also is the simple ending - Lenin's words, "The power is ours. We commence the reconstruction".

The Photographic Club did wonders with the gymnasium in converting it into a cinema for the occasion, but they should take care next time to see that the commentary is audible (for we hope that there will be a next time. A film like "October" cannot be completely grasped in a single sitting), and also rearrange the music for the last three reels. Possibly, the audience would have listened to the overture if the lights had been dimmed, even it was highbrow stuff from the Carnegie collection.

Art.

How the war has changed the average man's opinions on art! Before the outbreak he did not think much about it. He might have wandered up to the National Art Gallery of a dull Sunday afternoon, paid his sixpence to leave his umbrella at the counter whether he wanted to or not, and wandered through. But, he did not really see much. He concentrated on not losing his way in the maze, and if he saw the same picture twice he realised that he had made a grave mistake. Unless it Was a nude.

He saw in his "Life" or "Picture Poet" now and then coloured photographs of Old Masters, or good modern work. He quickly passed on to the pictures of the latest and juiciest murders, or wars, if there is any difference. There is not much photographically, anyway. Or the latest photographs of the nude.

He might even have encountered, at one stags of his disturbingly thoroughly dressed passage through life, some Medici reproductions. Sources quite independent of the producers say that these are very good reproductions, so perhaps they are. But this does not penetrate to the average man. Rembrandt and Terboch languish dustily on the walls of the entrance hall of Victoria College. A cartoon by Minhinnik would be more appreciated.

But now the average man in New Zealand has found a work of art which he appreciates, heart and soul. It not a great work, as works of art go. It is only a reproduction, and, a very small

Book review.

A man and his wife. Frank Sargeson

It has some at last;—the spirit that is animating innumerable writers in America and many in England has at last descended on one writer in this little backwater, on one solitary man who writes as ho hears and as he pleases—Frank Sargeson. His book is a collection of short short stories on title". "A nan and his wife", and it is one of the most significant publications in the history of this country's literature.

Those stories have not the fascinatingly flippant backchat of the Saroyan technique. Mr. Sargeson has cut adrift from this sort of effrontery, which certainly anuses, but at the sane time leaves one with an impression of glittering vanity- emptiness. He has not suffered by his repudiation of this sort of humour. His stories now possess a solidity and truthfulness which wins your sympathy almost before you know you had such a commodity. He has you just where he wants you, and his grip does not [unclear: slackcon] nor yet is it a chinese burn. He is as delicately balanced as Katherine Mansfield (may her tribe increase) upon that point of "dainty equilibrium" that is, alas, so inaccessable. And Mr. Sargeson is never coarse, and in fact many of his lines have the crystal ring of clear poetry. They toll of the old, unhappy, far-off things.

His characters are jagged—rough-edged, and coloured black. Yet they are united in some subterranean fashion by close bonds, which would extend to every New Zealander. They act like hearers, dockers and clerks, and they talk like shearers, dockers and clerks. Yet they have something of the universality which makes a nation out of a cosmos of individual personalities. Hence Mr. Sargeson's importance, and the reason why you should have him on your shelves. You will road him again and again.

To praise a writer is of little value, and to consure is positively useless, yet I cannot leave you to Prank Sargeson without commenting on the uniform lack of colour that is displayed in all these stories. Hero is his fault, if we are to find fault. New Zealand is a land full of colour and Mr. Sargeson is black, yes—most monotonously black, with one or two patches of grey. However this is his peculiarity and in a way it makes him what he is. With this I leave you to him;—Mr. Sargeson.

Wellington Training college Choral Society. Annual Recital

"they ... talk like clerks "

I've been Charged to write a report about the concert. Was not so bad after all; even very good. Like it all right. A good choir they have got. I say. I bet there wasn't anybody in the audience who didn't enjoy those Russian folksongs. An there was a crowd of people, I tell you; never seen so many in my life at a Training College concert. But I'd better go through the items one by one, otherwise somebody may be hurt.

Well, they started with a pretty nice choral recital called "Rolling down to Rio" by a man called Edward German. You'd like to Jump up and dance or whistle to that tune. Gee, and did it have swing. Then our good friend Vesta page break Emanuel stood up and refused to sing "Mono but the lonely heart" by Tschaikowski. Instead of that she gave us a Brahms song and famous "Impatience" by Schubert. She was quite first class that evening and sure, nobody could object to her choice of songs. Just the right stuff for her voice, keeping a lot in reserve and just giving us a tickle by the idea what a noise she could make if she only would. Good on you, Vesta. And then we (at least I) made the discovery of Joan Wollerman. Ever heard a fine song like Sea-[unclear: Wraek]" by Hamilton Merty? An she was good to look at too, pity somebody told me afterwards her [unclear: whato conclis] were artificial; but he may be a liar. I liked them anyhow. Last your I remember, I thought a bit of Roll out the Barrel when listening to him, but this year he was o. k. only when it came to the bass-notes the bottom dropped out of his voice. Still, he was good and we liked Vaughan Williams. 'The sky above the roof'. (Just to show you that there is modern English music just as good as anything else over composed).

Ever heard anything like the "Overture on Yiddish, thomos" by Prokofiof? Then reds were certainly pleased that the man who composed this sparkly bit of work is a [unclear: Soviot] Russian. Funny that then underdogs should bo able to produce anything fine like that. [unclear: Clarinet], string quartet and piano gave us an exciting suite of sad thomos and merry melodies all loosely women together and did the audience applaud enthusiastically afterwards

During interval wont out and got some fresh air, as awfully sticky inside. Thom Training Colt go people should look for a bit bettor ventilation, anyhow afterwards they sang that "Power of Sound" they've been talking such a lot about. And fair dinkum it was a first class performance. Of course, wo were a bit tired after all that singing and playing but still we could enjoy the tunefulness and melody of that cantata. Would have boon better though to play it twice over, once to appreciate the words and once to listen to the music 'cause both are equally important. That after "[unclear: Jesu], joy of man's desiring" by good old Bach and an orchestra piece called "Handel in the Strand" - some what in the way of "Mr. Bach goes to town - rather amusing; closed the recital.

And when after the end people shouted "Good old [unclear: Tomm]" it was quite clear that we all have to be thankful again to Mr. Young of Training College. Thank you, Mr. Young and all the ones that participated.

Bo.

some folks I know are always warried
that when they die they will be burled
and some I know are [unclear: quick elated]
because they're going to be cremated

reproduction at that. It had little variety in colours - red, yellow, green and white exhausts the choice. There is no depth to it, nor has it a foreground comparable to many a second-rate amateur water-colour. Granted the splendour of a regal crown has its place, but the gold has become tarnished, the jewels dulled. The whole is unrelieved black. In the other corner is a signature, a hastily scrawled signature, a signature for a cheque rather than the masterpiece which has captured this newly built nation.

Across the body of the work is printing, heavy black type, with figures down the side. A very symbol of mass production. And for a background, small fortunately, but jarringly present, the oft-repeated words "New Zealand Government". Surrealism? No. Surrealism never had the hold on the people that this has. Surely it is a tragic condemnation of art appreciation in New Zealand that the most sought prize in the land should be that mass-produced, art-less miniature, the Petrol Coupon;

Enter Without Knocking

Here is the pawn-shop, ladies,
Here you can buy
Ideas for a penny, gods for a sigh.

Evaluate
The postulate.

Flags drape the walls.
Around are robots who repeat old laws
For record purposes;
Weaving new patterns
At confident pace
Embellish, embroider
The trade-mark base:

Here is the pawn-shop,
Here you can buy
Ideas for a penny, gods for a sigh.

But one day, they know, the wheels will grata,
The flags will be their pall,
The broker's blandness stumble
Incoherent to its fall.

The postulate
Found syncopate:

Here is the pawn-shop, ladies,
Here you can buy
Sleep for a penny, death for a sigh,
Freedom for ever from knowledge's eye.

Film Review - the Grapes of Wrath.

"And we whom winter days oppress
May find some work to hand.......

While conserving the main lines of John Steinbeck's novel, the film version of "The Grapes of Wrath" is given a [unclear: rather] different orientation. It seems as though, in their attempt to avoid the "blasphemous coprology" of the book, the screen-adaptors have also - unconsciously, no doubt - hinted that the life the lower classes, like its language, is not always quite so bad as it would seem, and that even if it is, no one can help it: the picture ends on a rather unjustified note of hope - the remnants of page break the Joad family are on their way to 20 days steady work; and, at the beginning, we have the naive statement that the events to follow are "due to economic circumtances beyond anyone's control.

Apart from this, however, the film is excellent. In scenes such as Tom's parting from his mother, towards the end of the film, it would have been fatally easy to [unclear: ruin] the character- presentation and the value of the story with typical cinema hysterics and gooey sentimentality; actually, this is one of the best scenes in the film. A similar scene is that in which Mully tells Tom of the "peaceful liquidation" of the surrounding farmers.

The characters are excellent - Henry Fonda as Tom Joad gave a very convincing and powerful performance it Would have been very easy to make a slapdash Gable Job of this role. Casy, too, is very good - his is a rather symbolic character, and John Carradine had the ability to portray it well. Ma Joad is a much more powerful character than Pat taken as a pair, these two are not so well represented as Granma and Granpa (in whose part Charlie Grapewin gave a sterling performance); although, as a single [unclear: charsecter], Ma is the best of the four. Rosasharn is rather unconvincing, lacks the realism of the others; and Connie, largely because his role is relatively less important, tends to be the same.

The photography was splendid. The intense dramatic power of film technique was never better presented than in some of the scenes in this picture. Nature shots were unusually convincing.

On the whole, then, "The Grapes of wrath" is a powerful film: the realism of the action wipes out fairly effectively the influence of the "sops to Cerberus" some moral soul has had inserted (at the instigation of the United Temperance Societies, no doubt). Despite the presence, in the seat in front, of a snoring soldier, and behind us, of three badly repressed youths, we came out well satisfied.

K. J. H.

Thanks a Million.

In this last issue of Salient, for 1940, I would like to express my appreciation, of all those who have assisted in the production of the paper. Despite numerous difficulties, Salient staff have shown an admirable spirit of co-operation, and all credit is due to them for the perseverance and patience that they have shown in a period that has been the most onerous of the paper's existence.

I would like to mention especially. [unclear: Wilf] Watson, who has been responsible for the really excellent printed headings; Kate Ross and Shirley Grinlinton for cutting stencils; and the others (there are about 20 on the staff) who have put time and energy into duplicating, distribution, sorting, stapling and news collection.

And last but hot least the Duplicator, which despite frequent breakdowns, occasioning vitriolic flows of highly seasoned language, has performed a "job of Work" of importance. Thanks!