Or more important things: In “The Affairs of Anatol” a woman steals a pocketbook to pay back money she has taken from her husband, who is treasurer of a church, and the husband accepts it as quite all right, without making any effort at all to find out where his wife got it.
Apparently, in such cases, neither actors nor directors knew any better—in the one case good manners, in the other, seemingly, good morals.
But we have a right to insist on something better than that. The people who tell our stories must know more about both manners and morals than we do, or they are not worth keeping on as story-tellers.
How long could a teacher unable to speak correct English be kept in a public school?
If the people of our photoplays don’t do worth-while, intelligent, convincing things,—out with them.
They do not need to be goody-goodies, either.
Last of all, the place where things happen.
Here, it is plain sailing; we want things artistic if possible—but accurate, anyway.
Suppose a boy started to tell you about a game of tennis, and happened to refer to the solid rubber balls.
When a photoplay shows London streets, with all the traffic going to the right, instead of to the left as it really goes there, we watch a lie.