WHEN DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS JR took me to task a few
weeks ago for suggesting that his films were not British, I did not immediately reply; my viewing is sporadic, and I felt that I might have judged them from too small a sample. I have since seen more of them; and feel confirmed in my judgment. It is not enough for directors, writers, artists and location to be British (assum- ing for the moment that British films ought to have a character of their own) if the object is to produce films which might just as well be made in Hollywood—and, indeed, probably would be, if it were not more convenient to make them here. The Fairbanks film which finally broke my spirit, however, was not even intended to be British: it was about Ireland. Written by Paul Vincent Carroll, acted by a distinguished cast, and set in Dublin, it was none the less just another piece of stale Irish cod. No doubt it will have been popular in the States, where stage oirishness is still popular; my only feeling was of regret that people of the calibre of Barbara Mullen and Liam Redmond should have let themselves be concerned in such rubbish.
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