The Chilean ambassador to the United States cannot seem to fall in with the traditions of the North American film at all. He rather objects, for instance, to the idea that all children from south of the Rio Grande grow up to be craven desperadoes to be slaughtered or knocked out by iron-fisted vigilantes with curly hair, alleged Anglo-Saxon ancestry, and IT. He has a sort of a case, perhaps. But these Latins never seem to have a proper sense of good, clean fun and don't understand what an important and necessary part they play in film land.

But Senor Miguel Cinchaga Tacornal goes on from denying that his countrymen are a bunch of villains to allegations too monstrous to stomach. He dares to say that South American lovers do not serenade their ladies in the perpetual moonlight of the southern hemisphere, that there are no matadors in Argentina because no bull-fights.

But Senor Miguel Cinchaga Tocornal stomach. Where is romance, where color? Does all womankind wear "Bar is creations" and display its ears? Is all mankind standardized into that deaf torture, the dinner jacket? Where will this end? Soon we may hear that Germans do not drink beer that Frenchmen do not tempt innocent American chorus-girl-hood, that manicuring is a profitable Chinese industry. Nothing is more shameful than to destroy the faith of the great American peepul in foreign nature.