the most eloquent disbeliever of today stands gaping in silence. Behind the human power which wrote the poem, or composed the music, or built the cathedral lies a vast reserve; and, though it was not drawn upon, we seem to glimpse that reserve forever in the finished masterpiece.
Has any reader of this book gone to see the same photoplay ten times? And if so, why? Was it because of some irresistible, undying lure in the content of that photoplay or in the pictorial form of that content? Did you go of your own free will? Did you even make a sacrifice to see it the tenth time? If so, then you have known the calm joy of a reserve power in the newest of the arts.
Unfortunately reserve is not characteristic of the movies. It is seldom indeed that a photoplay contains anything of value that cannot be caught during the first showing. In fact, it happens rather frequently that a photoplay uses up every ounce of its own proper power and then is forced to call in the help of something known as "padding" before it measures up to the commercial fullness of five reels, or whatever the contract stipulates. If you poke around through this padding, you will find that it is usually made up of innocent kittens, ducklings, calves, human babies, and other "ain't-it-cunnin'" stuff, which may arouse emotions, to be sure, but not the emotions which make up the enjoyment of art as art.
Another typical lack of reserve is illustrated in the building and decoration of settings. Avalanches of furniture are apparently necessary to show that a character is well-to-do. The heroine's boudoir must look like a gift shop, and her dressing table like a drug
