"Newman, Kim - The Pierce-Arrow Stalled, And..." - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

hobo. He'd have done good in the movies before they went to hell. Not
really a kid, either. His name was Jimmy Stewart.
They were up around the fire that burned most nights in the middle of
Agry. It'd been a ghost town five years ago, when Johnny came to get away
from the G-Men. Now its population was up to gold rush numbers.
As American servicemen were poured into the so-called Holy War in Mexico,
more and more kids drifted in. Inverting W.C. Fields' catch-phrase, the
draft-protestors cried 'give this fucker an even break'. Nearly a million
young men disappeared from the record books. They aped Henry Fonda and
Woody Guthrie in Blowin' Down This Road, gathering in abandoned railroad
sidings and backwoods towns. Several states had chosen to tolerate these
shadow communities, but there were still Sheriff's Deputies with baseball
bats.
'Don't you want to be a soldier-boy, son?'
'Not in this war, Mr Dillinger. I don't mind what Cбrdenas does in his own
country. It's not the fight I care for. That one's in Europe and the
Pacific.'
Most Americans felt that way. The war was Coughlin's crusade and plenty,
of all political persuasions, wanted out of it. The President was just a
jumped-up radio preacher filling the shoes of a martyr. Some wanted
America to tend its own garden and win back its lost children; some
thought it'd need all its armies for the big war that seemed more likely
every day.
In the firelight, Stewart's face was set. Johnny thought he looked a
little like a hero. Hollywood had missed something.

Garbo Fucks! Ninotchka (1939).

The climax couldn't top the scene where Rhett laid Scarlett down on the
red stairs, ripped open her clothes and rutted with her for a full five
minutes. The King reputedly wanted his crown back and insisted he be
allowed to go better than Flynn. Since that steamy interlude, the audience
had been getting restless as tragedy piled upon tragedy. The plantation
burned as the Jayhawkers encroached. The guerillas were played by
Hollywood Mexicans.
It boiled down to whether you were interested in the love or the war,
Roscoe supposed. The love stuff was over in the plot, but the war went on.
It was supposed to be the Civil War but he knew better. When a city burned
or a wounded soldier limped, he thought not of Atlanta in 1864 but Tijuana
in 1940. This was the movie that summed it up, the feelings of a whole
generation. A new generation.
Roscoe, a jolly relic from an innocent age, was bewildered, and a little
blue. His films had been for children; even the grown-ups of 1922 were
children next to the hard-eyed youngsters scattered through the auditorium
of Grauman's Chinese.
Orson Welles was the new von Stroheim, Keaton claimed. As powerfully as he
felt assaulted by Gone With the Wind, Roscoe agreed. On his best days, he
had never been one-fourth the director this kid - another fatty, they said
- was. If he grew a heart as he got older, he might be better than
Griffith, than Chaplin.