No one, I imagine, would deny the beauty and even nobility which trees can bring to an otherwise undistinguished street. And no one would question the convenience and utility of electric power. But when is the awful conflict of the leaves and the wires to be settled in the streets of our towns and cities? It has become completely obvious that the trees and the poles won't mix, and we must either bury the cables and give the trees a chance to throw out their branches, or stick to our wires and forget about any form of planting.

The pathetic results of trying to mix the two can be seen almost anywhere in our towns. Generally the trees are planted immediately beneath the overhead wires, so that it is only a matter of time before the topmost branches must be ruthlessly and expensively cut back.

The main street of one of our provincial towns is lined with mature London Planes whose hideously deformed limbs give evidence of years of brutal hacking, until I'm sure that the most insensitive passer-by would rather see them put out of their misery and removed altogether.

And the planting of smaller varieties of trees does not solve the problem. To give the necessary scale and dignity to our suburban streets the trees must be tall, but roof-high planting merely accentuates the dull uniformity of the skyline.

So it seems that we must wipe the wires or the trees. But for the sake of leafy avenues yet unborn, let's have some action — one way or the other.

In 1941 the picture-going public had their first look at a Weekly Review from the National Film Unit. In 1950 they had their last. By order of the Government, the Review appeared for the last time. Its going caused some comment, but that was some months ago, and now it has passed into oblivion. The gap it has left in our cinema programmes is a real one. Audiences, after their initial suspicion of something home-grown — and with a possible taint of Labour propaganda — had actually begun to enjoy it. They even discussed it afterwards—a considerable testimonial for any newsreel.

But from the point of view of people interested in the future of New Zealand films it is questionable whether the Weekly Review really was such a good thing. Certainly it was a good newsreel, competently photographed, and, apart from too-frequent items showing dull politicians speaking at dull ceremonies, entertaining. That is as far as it went. After nine years the National Film Unit, with its large staff and its expensive equipment, was still using the greater part of its resources in the production of a nine-minute newsreel. Where were the documentary films showing our social experiments — the films that, according to the arch-priest Grierson, would command international attention? They just did not show up.

It is true that on a number of occasions the Weekly Review was given over to one subject, a short documentary. Several striking ones come to mind immediately — Holmes' Coaster, Thompson's Railway Worker and Faulkner's Backblocks Medical Service, to name three of the best. Forlong's experimental Rhythm and Movement, too, with background music by Douglas Lilbum, showed great promise of weightier work — a promise hardly fulfilled by the inept casting and amateurish directing of Journey for Three.

But with a few notable exceptions, the Weekly Reviews, whether dealing with one subject or with several, rarely showed any imaginative treatment worth the name. The use of the camera was prosaic; the scripts mediocre and poorly integrated with the film; the background music remarkably ill-chosen; and in spite of elaborate sound recording equipment natural sound was hardly ever used except in set pieces—speeches, orchestras and the like. (An outstanding exception was one of the last made —a pleasantly conceived, well-recorded item about the Wellington Carillon.) In short — little imagination anywhere. Oddly enough, the directors and cameramen who seemed likely to pull the National Film Unit out of the rut have all gone elsewhere. It would be interesting to know why.

No doubt the foregoing remarks are harsh. They are meant to be. The Film Unit, which had a unique chance to record ‘democracy in action’, gave the public a lollipop.

To an outside observer, political pressure seemed in large measure to blame. It was notorious that films reflecting in even the most remote way on the Government were taboo. New Zealand and New Zealanders appears always, to use Grierson's phrase, ‘in the spit and polish of perfection’. ‘If you appear always’, he said, ‘in the spit and polish of perfection we shall know very quickly that you are either inhuman or you are liars’.

The scenes left out, not the propaganda put in — there was little of that — were the tell-tale of political interference. No honest film maker can make honest documentaries unless he is left alone. No honest newsreel reporter can give honest reports unless he is free from outside influence. The politically innocuous; the glib skirting around accurate comment, the ‘human interest’ triviality— by all means! But the waterfront strike, the plight of the homeless and destitute, the problems of the Maoris — never, never, never.

To sum up — the Weekly Review neglected important aspects of New Zealand life and, instead, clung to the politically safe. It became merely an entertaining hotchpotch with no clear purpose other than the assembling of heterogeneous bits and pieces into a nine-minute programme. Considering the heavy expense involved, and the lack of any sign that the National Film Unit would adopt a new direction and a more vigorous policy, perhaps we can say without many qualms ‘Better dead!’

We should not have to waste many words in proving that wallpaper is the must universal, as it is the most democratic, of the applied arts. When properly used and of good design, wallpaper can create space, proportion, colour and background in the most humble room. ‘The walls’, as William Morris said, ‘make your house and home, and if you do not make some sacrifices in their favour you will find your rooms have a kind of makeshift lodging-house look about them; however rich and handsome your movables may be.’ We could add to Morris's remarks and say that even the inexpensive, not very well-designed furniture that most of us have to put up with is enhanced by setting it against a good wallpaper.

For a long time most people have been prejudiced against any but ‘cream’ and plain drab-coloured walls; for the reason, of course, that cream is safe —it does at any rate prevent comment. So it is heartening to notice in the shop windows papers of good quality, colour, and pleasing, if somewhat conventional, design.

The manufacturers, at all events, are doing their part. They are making wallpapers of excellent design and employing artists of the first rank to create them. Edward Bawden, Henry Moore, Graham Sutherland, Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant are some of the names that come to mind. Besides contemporary

Manufacturers, of course, cater for every level of taste, and importers have to do the same. If we want good wallpapers we have to ask for them, since it is impossible for any merchant to do more than make a tentative guess at what the capricious demands of his customers will be. So far importers have been in advance of the public, which, it seems, can be separated into three classes: the few who know exactly what they want; the larger group which merely knows what it doesn't like; and the majority which has no opinions and no ideas about the matter at all. It would be an interesting experiment to subject a couple of dozen first-rate wallpaper designs to the casual inspection of the ordinary buying public. The comments would not be difficult to predict.

To create a demand for everyday things of high artistic merit is a ticklish business. The merchant is faced with the dilemma either of showing his customers

Manufacturers have not always been in this dilemma. The long and (for the most part) honourable record of wallpaper demonstrates that fine design and craftsmanship were, until about 1840, the rule and not the exception.

The history of wallpaper makes a fascinating social study, for it provides a remarkably clear and continuous picture of the way people have lived, of their pretensions, their taste and their manners. The earliest English wallpaper that has been found dates from about 1500. These early papers were hand painted; they were nailed — not pasted — to the wall, and they were given to the paperhanger in very small pieces. Later on the small pieces were joined together and delivered in rolls; joins were made less noticeable by overprinting. By 1700 printing from wood blocks was general, but paper was still scarce — old deeds, letterpress, parchments were all pressed into service. As paper supplies improved and printing technique developed, wallpaper became cheaper. By the second half of the eighteenth century there were great demands for English wallpaper from America and France. English wallpaper was superior then, as it is again today, to all others in design and technique.

Machine printing revolutionized the wallpaper trade, and from 1840 until well into the twentieth century the story of wallpaper declines into the dreary recital we are all so familiar with. Cheap and tawdry papers began to flood the market. They were designed without any idea of the true purpose and object of wall decoration. It was William Morris who showed the way to better things, and to him goes much of the credit for the better work of the nineteenth century.

Today papers are comparatively cheap to buy, and they are, without doubt, the best of all wall coverings. They are produced with the highest technical skill, and many of them, as we have seen, are designed by first-rate artists. Supplies are there. It is for us to demand them.