Talking of Preston Sturges, here is a natural New Yorker's view of Hollywood at its peak. Thus Sturges sees a daft kingdom, golden with its own plenty and contentment, yet an oyster striving to imagine one grain of grit-what is it, but the longing for respectability and the deep wish to make Art (with a little sex). Sturges had ten years as a genius, no more, and then he blew it up, or sneezed. It's a great lesson that genius in Hollywood is temperamental and as shifty as the weather-or a matter of luck and insanity. Today, alas, the solemn side in Sullivan (so beautifully offered by Joel McCrea) has buried film directors. They are as solemn as Kissinger about their work. But Sturges knew that the best thing about being a movie director was keeping out of prison (and a little bit of sex). The Oscar should be renamed the Preston-it melts ten minutes after you get it.