Preview

imagination to take you far beyond the events depicted on the screen? Perhaps we all do this at times. But this tragedy in minuscule should give you pause and cure you of the habit forever. The flying saucer folk may just happen to be watching you. Mr. Scanlon had reasons of his own for insisting on a preview. But what they were nobody knows! “What every discerning theatergoer is searching for,” said Mr. Scanlon, “is a kind of sixth-sense heightening of perception. I choose to call it a superseding experience—a blotting out of the mundane and familiar and the substitution of the totally unexpected. In short, a superior vision of reality. Stella, you see, is a ‘stripped’ actress.” Mr. Scanlon looked about him, and smiled. “No, gentlemen. I’m not being Rabelaisian, or thinking of the burlesque stage. She’s a ‘stripped’ actress in the sense that the kind of realism I’ve been talking about is her guiding star. Everything else—every shred of romantic or sentimental tinsel—has been stripped away.” “But, Mr. Scanlon! Surely—” “Gentlemen, I think you’ll agree that her first liaison with Hollywood has carried her to heights undreamed of in your philosophy—if drama critics can legitimately be said to possess a philosophy.” “But, Mr. Scanlon—” “Gentlemen, be patient. Relax. You’ll never see another preview like this, and you must enjoy it to the full. There go the lights.” The lights dimmed and the long, cinemascopic screen brimmed with a deep-toned miracle of radiance. Into the Black Hills on a white charger rode Robert Mitchum. The epoch which was to resound with his deeds of valor was not immediately determinable. But from the peaceful aspect of the landscape everyone took it for granted that it was B.C. (Before Custer)—until the new techniques of sound dispersal which convey an illusion of torment in depth went into action. From every nook and cranny of the theater rifles cracked in earsplitting synchronization. It was no run-of-the-hill Western. Every part was played to perfection, against the kind of historically realistic background that had made “Shane” and a scant dozen lesser pictures classics of their kind. The critics flanking Mr. Scanlon realized this, and unlimbering their fastidious brows they started scribbling. “There she is,” said Mr. Scanlon. “Gentlemen, this should be your most rewarding moment.” Into the center of that scenic magnificence stepped Stella. Her blonde loveliness was peculiarly her very own, and it was