This was usually producer Alexander Korda's advice on set to many of his underlings; the film is credited with three directors but in truth Alex, Zoltan Korda and William Cameron Menzies helped out, pushing it to six.
For John Kobal's 1987 book, "The Top 100 Movies", his survey of 81 film critics saw The Thief of Bagdad reach 55th place. A closer examination reveals only Jose Luis Guarner, John Russell Taylor and Kobal himself actually voted for the picture, but their high placings were enough to take it to near the half-way mark.
The outbreak of the Second World War saw the movie's production shifted around England and America, eventually seeing completion in 1940 and winning three technical Oscars. Like Citizen Kane, it is in some ways perhaps a film you might admire rather than love.
The special effects, outstanding for the time, are still reasonable, and actually hold up if you squint. But it's not so much their effectiveness as the audacity of the inventions. Among them is an amusing horse, constructed out of a kit model, which, when a key is inserted up it's rear end, begins to fly. There's also a killer toy of the six-armed Goddess Kali, (perhaps quite obviously a single woman with two women sitting behind her) and a quite horrific-looking giant spider. Also impressing is the climax with its wonderful flying carpet. But most memorable has to be Rex Ingram appearing as, in a superb moment of cinematic conceit, a djinn (genie) nearly a thousand feet tall! Ingram portrays the genie as quite a menacing creature, and adds an element of danger to the proceedings. And look out for the moment where he's tricked back into his bottle!
John Justin does well as the Arabic king who, for some strange reason, has an English accent and a stiff upper lip. Sabu, the astonishingly muscled 15year-old, is near-namesake Abu, a likeably cocky thief. After they cross paths with the evil Jaffer (Conrad Veidt), Justin finds himself blind and Abu is turned into a dog. When it seems the rest of the film will be told in flashback through the blind Ahmed's (Justin's) perspective, we find that halfway through the movie we catch up to the present and the adventure continues. In truth, the second half is someway the better, being full of greater incident and more fantastical in nature.
Three small songs pepper the piece, though as the film lasts for 100 minutes this feels more like mild flavouring rather than a real ingredient; I wouldn't classify this as a musical. It's all great fun; Justin and June Duprez are the love interest for the mums and dads, Veidt is the boo-hiss villain, and Abu is the youthful, irrepressible robber. It may take a while to get into the somewhat dated mindset and overblown melodrama of 40s English movies, but once you've sat through the first half an hour or so this film really draws you in. Quite commendable.

The ultimate goal of Big Brother, that we know what to think before we think it, has been realized. Is it some kind of miracle, or sinister joke, that people don mental straight jackets of their own volition, twist themselves into contorted shapes, and grin like apes? Movies, art, no longer risk the unknown, but are forgone conclusions, drained of life.
"The Notorious Bettie Page" is a bland case history, fit for a freshman college feminism course. Its lesson is schematic, right-angled and linear: "See how women are objectified, exploited, abused, then tossed on the trash heap, by a male-dominated society."
Bettie Page, supposedly, was the "pin-up queen of the 1950's," the ass millions of men ejaculated to. (All reviewers repeat that phrase, "pin-up queen of the 1950's," like a choir of monkeys.) Her history as an American sex bomb is familiar: Southern, abused by her father, raped, etc. In this movie she is a naïf, an innocent unaware of the prurient interests she serves and shamelessly profits from. Although she believes in Jesus, she enjoys frolicking nude before a camera lens -- just the wholesome girl-next-door sex-slave American males supposedly fantasize.
From the mouth of writer-director Mary Harron herself, Oxford-educated AND ex-punker (do you smell the combined rot of privilege and "hipness" as I do?): "I feel that without feminism, I wouldn't be doing this. ... I don't make feminist films in the sense that I don't make anything ideological. But I do find that women get my films better." What a cozy clique.
The movie merely goes through the motions of telling the story of a human life, it's subject and purpose having been eulogized and interred well before the movie began. Ms. Page has a boyfriend, but we are shown next to nothing about their relationship. In fact, there are no intimate or detailed relationships in the film.
One can't ignore its smug simplicity. In New York, where Ms. Page tries her best to fit into and appease a man's world, letting herself be tied up in the ropes of bondage and tightly laced into the black leather boots and bodices of S & M, the movie is black and white. But down in Miami, where she goes to get away from it all, gleefully takes off her clothes, and is photographed by a "liberated" female, the movie turns into color.
Like hell Harron doesn't "make feminist films," doesn't "make anything ideological." Ideology has become so internalized, so assumed, so programmed, that it's almost invisible. Big Brother must be smiling.