“Such is the combination, it seems to me, that has produced the artistry now so generally applauded, an artistry that perhaps achieved its full flowering in that powerful bit toward the close of Brewing Trouble--the return of the erring son with his agony of appeal so markedly portrayed that for the moment one almost forgot the wildly absurd burlesque of which it formed the joyous yet truly emotional apex. I spoke of this. “‘True burlesque is, after all, the highest criticism, don’t you think?’ he asked me. ‘Doesn’t it make demands which only a sophisticated audience can meet-isn’t it rather high-brow criticism?’ And I saw that he had thought deeply about his art. “‘It is because of this,’ he went on, ‘that we must resort to so much of the merely slap-stick stuff in our comedies. For after all, our picture audience, twenty million people a day--surely one can make no great demands upon their intelligence.’ He considered a moment, seemingly lost in memories of his work. ‘I dare say,’ he concluded, ‘there are not twenty million people of taste and real intelligence in the whole world.’ “Yet it must not be thought that this young man would play the cynic. He is superbly the optimist, though now again he struck a note of almost cynic whimsicality. ‘Of course our art is in its infancy--’ He waited for my nod of agreement, then dryly added, ‘We must, I think, consider it the Peter Pan of the arts. And I dare say you recall the outstanding biological freakishness of Peter.’ But a smile--that slow, almost puzzled smile of his--accompanied the words. “‘You might,’ he told me at parting, ‘call me the tragic comedian.’ And again I saw that this actor is set apart from the run of his brethren by an almost uncanny gift for introspection. He has ruthlessly analysed himself. He knows, as he put it, ‘what God meant him to be.’ Was here a hint of poor Cyrano? “I left after some brief reference to his devoted young wife, who, in studio or home, is never far from his side. “‘It is true that I have struggled and sacrificed to give the public something better and finer,’ he told me then; ‘but I owe my real success all to her.’ He took the young wife’s hand in both his own, and very simply, unaffectedly, raised it to his cheek where he held it a moment, with that dreamy, remembering light in his eyes, as of one striving to recall bits of his past. “‘I think that’s all,’ he said at last. But on the instant of my going he checked me once more. ‘No, it isn’t either.’ He brightened. ‘I want you to tell your readers that this little woman is more than my wife--she is my best pal; and, I may also add, my severest critic.’” End of Project Gutenberg’s Merton of the Movies, by Harry Leon Wilson