From Jay Sanders:
FROM THE DEVELOPER TO THE PLAYERYou who so trudge amid serious things that you feel it shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to amusement and joyousness in the land of Hollywood; you who think that life have not to do with innocent laughter that can harm no one; this game is not for you. Turn off the device and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good, intoxicated folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes by the name of Producer. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom all the others bow and call her Director. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call the Agent. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim look--the worshipful, the Actor. And here, above all, is a great, fictional, merry fellow that roams the media and joins in homely conversation, and sits beside the Sheriff at merry awards, which same beareth the name of the proudest of the AcademyThe Oscar. Beside these are a whole host of writers, musicians, editors, assistants, screenwriters, cinematographers, photographers, make up, hair, managers, mixers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd bars of certain old songs (snipped and clipped and tied together again in a score of loops) which draw these cheerful fellows here and there, singing as they go.Here you will find a hundred exciting, calm, jogging places, all tricked out with flowers and what not, till no one would know them in their fanciful dress. And here is a country bearing a well-known name, wherein no chill mists press upon our spirits, and no rain falls but what rolls off our backs like April showers off the backs of sleek palms; where flowers bloom forever and birds are always singing; where every fellow has a merry catch as he travels the roads, and weed and whiskey and water (such as muddle no wits) flow like water in a river.This country is not Fairyland. What is it? 'Tis the land of Hollywood, and is of that pleasant kind that, when you tire of it--whisk!--you close this app and 'tis gone, and you are ready for everyday life, with no harm done.And now I lift the curtain that hangs between here and No-man's-land. Will you come with me, sweet Player? I thank you. Give me your hand.