These days, the history of cinema is treated like the history of just about anything else: with a combination of neglect and ignorance, willful or otherwise. Just take a gander at the hits of the past year, or even the past five: Is there a single film that continues the rich tradition of American filmmaking inaugurated by Griffith, Ford, and Wyler? In an industry now dominated by sequels, remakes, and comic book adaptations, there are few signs of the legacy of
Broken Blossoms
,
How Green Was My Valley
, or
The Best Years of Our Lives—
films that used the properties of cinema to tell stories about the trials and joys of being human. One can only surmise that the moviemakers of today, while ostensibly inheritors of this incomparable legacy, are so certain of their own genius that they feel no need to acquaint themselves with the past.