In the 1940s, movies were different. Before experimental films, cinema verité, and nouvelle vague, they had stories. Americans hopped in their Buicks – a foxtail tied to the radio antenna and baby boots suspended from the rearview mirror – drove to the movie house, and watched a story unfold before them. Almost invariably, the hero and heroine on the silver screen would meet, fall in love, overcome seemingly impossible obstacles, get married, and (presumably) live happily after. Oh, the stories varied slightly. But there was always a leading man and maybe a leading woman. Then there was the
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