o look forward to the time when the pouring streets of
men will become sacred in each other's eyes, in pictures and in fact.

A further discussion of this theme on other planes will be found in the
eleventh chapter, entitled "Architecture-in-Motion," and the fifteenth
chapter, entitled "The Substitute for the Saloon."

CHAPTER VI

PATRIOTIC SPLENDOR

The Patriotic Picture need not necessarily be in terms of splendor. It
generally is. Beginning the chronicle is one that waves no banners.

The Typhoon, a film produced by Thomas H. Ince, is a story of the
Japanese love of Nippon in which a very little of the landscape of the
nation is shown, and that in the beginning. The hero (acted by Sessue
Hayakawa), living in the heart of Paris, represents the far-off Empire.
He is making a secret military report. He is a responsible member of a
colony of Japanese gentlemen. The bevy of them appear before or after his
every important action. He still represents this crowd when alone.

The unfortunate Parisian heroine, unable to fathom the mystery of the
fanatical hearts of the colony, ventures to think that her love for the
Japanese hero and his equally great devotion to her is the important
human relation on the horizon. She flouts his obscure work, pits her
charms against it. In the end there is a quarrel. The irresistible meets
the immovable, and in madness or half by accident, he kills the girl.

The youth is protected by the colony, for he alone can make the report.
He is the machine-like representative of the Japanese patriotic formula,
till the document is complete. A new arrival in the colony, who obviously
cannot write the book, confesses the murder and is executed. The other
high fanatic dies soon after, of a broken heart, with the completed
manuscript volume in his hand. The one impression of the play is that
Japanese patriotism is a peculiar and fearful thing. The particular
quality of the private romance is but vaguely given, for such things in
their rise and culmination can only be traced by the novelist, or by the
gentle alternations of silence and speech on the speaking stage, aided by
the hot blood of players actually before us.

Here, as in most photoplays, the attempted lover-conversations in
pantomime are but indifferent things. The details of the hero's last
quarrel with the heroine and the precise thoughts that went with it are
muffled by the inability to speak. The power of the play is in the
ade