Karl Marx once made an unfortunate statement to the effect that religion is the opiate of the people.

Although I disagree with this statement—true religion is not an opiate but a necessity—the present increase in moral apathy may be due to the fact that Science has provided the masses with a number of infinitely more powerful opiates to numb their senses and blind their eyes to the injustice of the social system under which they live.

The most important of these opiates (excluding Uncle Scrim) is the motion picture.

A more perfect vehicle for artistic expression than the motion picture has never been discovered; it is at the same time a canvas and a musical instrument a piece of literature and a stage; almost all the mediums through which mankind has striven to express its greatest and noblest ideals are present. And yet most of the films we see are unadulterated muck. Why is this?

The Answer.

Cedric Belfrage, in his book, Promised Land," (the Left Book Club choice for February) tells us why, very clearly and succinctly. The answer to the question can be expressed in one word—Capitalism.

The title of the book is one of the cleverest I have seen. The theme of the tale is the history of Hollywood from its beginnings to the present day—thinly disguised as fiction. Hundreds of girls flock to Hollywood—to the "Promised Land," the city of glamour and glittering fame—and end up in an establishment such as Madame Betty's. Their "Promised Land" turns out to be hollow and empty, the glamour they had dreamed of mere tinsel; the love they had longed for dull, erotic play, But the title has further significances. Like flashes of light in darkness, in the conversations of his characters, Mr. Belfrage reveals the solution, which can be expressed in one word—Socialism.

When the first settlers straggled into the valley near which Hollywood now stands.—not so very long ago—They little realised that in a few years the eyes of the world would be fixed upon them, that millions of hearts would flutter at celluloid grins by the more favoured of their fellow-citizens. And even when the movies began to make Hollywood their "location," the townspeople ignored them. The "stars" lived a life apart, and it was only when whispers of nameless sins and orgies began to circulate that the laymen grew alarmed.

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.