THE WAYS OF THE film industry remain a constant source
of mystification to me. Recently there came on in London, with a flourish of publicity trumpets, a film called The Boy and the Bridge. I have not seen it, nor have the opinions of the critics given me any encourage- ment to do so; but even had they been a good deal more favourable than they were, I should have been put off by the puff which the BBC Television put on for it in one of its Tonight pro- grammes. The boy was shown being put through his paces by the director—be- ing told when to smile, how to walk, and so on. I can imagine no more effective way of destroying the whole illusion of spontaneity which a film of this kind depends on: the feeling that the boy is not acting, but being his natural self. As it happened, the episodes chosen for TV were not the kind that would send people flocking to the booking office: but why puff it that way? A conjuror,
after all, does not explain to his audience how he is going to do his tricks. And now I see that this was the film chosen by the British Film Producers' Associ- ation to be shown at the Venice Festival. Is it really the best we can do?
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