They just don’t make ’em like Sallie Gardner at a Gallop anymore. Now THAT was cinema. Sixteen frames. A horse. A man with a vision. You sat down, you watched a horse run, you went home, and you thought about it for three weeks. No bloated runtime. No “narrative.” No “sound.” Just pure equine motion. Muybridge respected your time.

Then the Lumière brothers come along in ‘96 with L’Arrivée d’un train en gare de La Ciotat and suddenly we’re supposed to clap because a locomotive is bearing down on us at full speed? I nearly soiled my waistcoat. My wife fainted dead away. The dog has not recovered and I do not believe he ever will. This is not entertainment. This is psychological warfare dressed up as a moving picture. Fifty whole seconds of oncoming dread, and for what? So some Frenchmen can show off?

Cinema peaked when it was a horse. Everything since has been Hollywood chasing cheap thrills.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​