Think of the technology this way: The movies were a medium that said, “Here, let me show you the impossible.” It knew that the public in its poverty, its ignominy, its plainness and its unknown status, was captivated by the screen’s celebration of faces, beauty, narrative splendor, and the strange lack of shyness that pretended it did not know we were watching.
So, the system whispered: Look at this lovely woman, look at her face, her legs, her breasts — look at them and dream your ticket has purchased them. And they don’t know you’re there in the dark, peeping at them. So they will sigh, begin to weep, stay there in the light, and even let a silk shift fall from their body.
And we watched. We paid the nickel — or the $15. And we knew. We knew the whole thing was an illicit trick and a guilty pleasure we might deny ourselves. It posited a kind of silent, frictionless possession and it posed a savage contrast between Beauty and our drab Beastliness that has torn our culture apart. We knew it was men acting on the innate superiority of gazing at women who, onscreen, carried themselves like elegant prisoners or slaves.