What is a magazine these days without its judicious film critic, whether for scene significant or kitsch unlimited: Stanley Kubrick cannot be too heavy, nor Peter Fonda too light. But why do they all read like Polonius? Maybe their trouble—at least where Hollywood flicks are concerned—is to take each one so gravely as an aesthetic whole. Hollywood movies can’t be that—most of them are made by committees of little boys. But they are photographed these days by wizards—so that you may not realize until you are down the street and into the coffeeshop that you have watched in fascination the unfolding of nothing whatever. With suitable anxiety and the aid of a proper Polonius, you may never realize it.
Meanwhile one could trace in the films that are most soberly merchandized and discussed the continuing search for an American dreamhero, who takes new forms to suit new needs. The latest hero is turned out younger, cooler, and softer to the touch—and he woul...
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