Jonathan Coe

that America was a shallow, vulgar, uncivilized place. He understood the allure of the image it was at pains to present to the world – a bold, insistent image, projected in Technicolor and VistaVision – but he was immune to it. Something within him rebelled against the idea of seeing a film which celebrated this way of life, even in the guise (hypocritical, he was sure) of a lurid melodrama which purported to expose its cracks and fault line

‘Now hold on a minute,’ said Thomas. ‘What we do at the COI can hardly be described as propaganda.’
‘Really? But what else would you call it?’
‘Well, as our name suggests, we deal in information.’
‘Yes, but it’s not as simple as that. In your publications and your exhibitions, you select certain pieces of information, and reject others. You present them in a certain way. These are political choices. We’re all doing it. That’s why we are all sitting here in Brussels. We’ve come to sell ourselves to the rest of the world.’