We don't make glamorous movies today. Everything now is very

Hear the lament of h Head, the great designer of Hollywood’s golden age, whose vision shaped the shimmering garments of stars and whose wisdom reached beyond cloth into the soul of cinema. She declared: “We don’t make glamorous movies today. Everything now is very realistic, artistic—and depressing. When is the last time you saw a wonderful musical or a fabulous fantasy?” These words ring like the echo of a vanished era, when the silver screen was a temple of dreams, and its priests and priestesses offered not only stories, but enchantment.

By glamorous movies, h spoke of that time when Hollywood was a realm of heightened beauty, where Fred Astaire glided across the floor as though gravity itself had consented to dance, and Judy Garland sang of rainbows that seemed almost within reach. In those days, the cinema was not merely a mirror of the world—it was a window into what the world might be at its most dazzling. To see such films was to be lifted above the heaviness of daily existence, if only for two radiant hours.

Yet Head observed the shift in her own lifetime. The march of cinema turned toward realism, toward gritty tales of human struggle, toward artistry that sought truth in sorrow rather than joy. These films, though powerful, she deemed depressing, for they gave little refuge to the weary soul. The musical and the fantasy—those bright flames of imagination—were fading, replaced by shadows of stark reality. And so her question is less a complaint than a cry for balance: why must cinema reflect only the burdens of life, when it has the power to uplift, to dazzle, to make the heart sing?

History itself provides a mirror to her concern. In the darkest days of the Great Depression, when bread lines stretched across cities and hope was thin, Hollywood produced its brightest spectacles. Busby Berkeley’s musicals filled the screen with kaleidoscopes of light and motion; Shirley Temple’s laughter rang like a bell against despair. These films did not ignore suffering—they transcended it. They gave people the strength to endure, reminding them that even amidst poverty and loss, joy and beauty were still possible. Thus Head’s longing is rooted in a proven truth: that fantasy has the power to heal.

Her words remind us also of the role of the artist in society. To depict reality is noble, but to offer escape is sacred. For humanity does not live by truth alone, but also by dreams. The farmer tills his soil more faithfully when he has glimpsed a vision of a brighter tomorrow; the worker bears his burdens more willingly when a song or a story has lifted his heart above them. Cinema, in its most glamorous form, serves this ancient role of myth—to take us beyond the confines of the present into realms where hope, beauty, and wonder are still alive.

Beloved listener, the lesson is clear: do not let your imagination die beneath the weight of realism. Honor truth, but also honor beauty. In your own life, create moments of fantasy—sing even when there is no reason to sing, adorn your days with color even when the world is gray. Seek not only to endure, but to dance, to laugh, to dream. For these are not trivialities; they are medicines for the soul.

Therefore, as h Head implores, let us restore the balance. Let storytellers once more dare to make wonderful musicals and fabulous fantasies, and let each of us in our daily lives create small spectacles of joy. When the world presses its realism upon you, answer with your own glamour. When despair rises, counter with song. When shadows grow long, kindle the light of imagination.

Thus shall her wisdom endure: that cinema—and life itself—is not only for recording the burdens of existence, but also for weaving garments of beauty, so that the human heart may walk through the darkness clothed in dreams.