Exhibitors Herald (1927)

50 EXHIBITORS HERALD April 2, 1927 rHIS department contains news, information and gossip on current productions. It aims to supply service which will assist the exhibitor in keeping in touch with developments in connection with pictures and picture personalities — and what these are doing at the box office. No prophecies on the entertainment value of pictures are made. Opinions expressed are simply those of the author or of his contributors and the reader is requested to consider them only as such. — EDITOR'S NOTE. MEADOW'S— MY CRUTCH Colleen MOORE sends me the following letter in reply to my appeal for aid printed in this space in the March 12 issue: Tm glad to help! The titles, “What’s become of all the Irish?” — “W hat’s become of all the Indians?”— icere spoken in “Irene” by Charlie Murray and a little Jewish comedian. Th ese titles were inspired by a funny story told to Ylr. McCormick by Mr. Roivland on one of his visits to California. The titles in “Irene” were written byGeorge Marion, Jr. Which places me in the awkward position of having to thank Miss Moore for convincing me that Em (forsooth and alack) as old as this hoary thatch and not ( wotta wallop is this) as young as this until now highly regarded pulse. Explaining which — in case any of you came in late: — In a belligerently learned treatise for this paper's Holiday Number I held the specified captions to be proof of a new public receptivity boding incalculable well for pictures. I quoted the captions as of “The Cohens and Kellys.” I was challenged, promptly and pointedly, by my very good exhibitor friend, Mr. William E. Tragsdorf of Neilsville, Wis., who offered to buy me suitable refreshments if the captions had not appeared, instead, in “Sweet Daddies.” Time elapsed (slang for “came another day”) and Exhibitor P. E. Tyas of Amherstburg, Ontario, ventured the suggestion that we were both wrong, a suggestion promptly seconded by Exhibitoress L. L. Netzer of Lena, Wis. My appeal to Miss Moore accompanied publication of Mrs. Netzer’s letter. And now, my dear Meadows, if Ray Murray and that Rolls Royce of his can spare you, bring my crutcb and prepare my wheel chair. We have a hemlock-drinking engagement with our good friend Trag. SPEAKING OF CAPTIONS ND — speaking of captions — I wish to make deferred award of my 1926 Service Medal for Captional Wit (both senses) to the George Marion, Jr., responsible for the lines in discussion. Eurther, I wish to recommend study of them to the bumper crop of enterprising young Joe Millers whose typings are killing so many (while saving a few) of our current productions. I know that I am at odds with the multitude in my assertion that the present prac By T. O. SERVICE tice of putting motion pictures in competition with Life and Judge on their terms and in their mediums is quite wet. Exhibitors’ reports on recently issued attractions over stuffed with pun titles show the gag rescue thing to be wholly practicable and successful. No doubt, therefore, it will continue in popularity and my thatch will whiten at even more alarming rate. Nor can I do anything about it — save to suggest that the Rowlands and McCormicks lend their personal gifts to the operation if it must go on — and woe continues to be me. ALAS, POOR TOM While sorrowing (and it’s tough to feel this way with the sun shining in the window as — perhaps my grief persuades me to believe — it never sbone before) I may as well mention the sad case of Thomas Meighan. I saw him in “Blind Alleys” and what a picture! I do not mind hearing pictures panned by those who sit near me in the theatre. I even get a kick out of healthy and well founded ridicule. But the folks at the Oriental last night just kidded this thing and Tom hasn’t done anything to deserve that. Homeward bound, I mourned for Tom, groaned for myself, then took heart and decided not to resign this picture-seeing assignment this morning when I recalled that Paramount was sportsman enough to run the picture in the Paramount. That type of ganieness makes even negotiation of the blind alleys worth while. SEASTROM, AGAIN But the week was not a total loss. I saw Victor Seastrom’s “The Scarlet Letter” and that’s something else aagin. That’s a picture. I would gladly sit through a dozen caption-comics of average length and another dozen hide-and-seek scenarios each week if I were sure of finding one such production at the end. I am persistently informed that Mr. Seastrom’s “Scarlet Letter” is not exactly Nathaniel Hawthorne’s (which I successfully evaded in book form) and I'm glad of that. I don’t think Seastrom has any business witb a book, anyway; he’s so much more able at story-telling than the mere writers. His “Scarlet Letter,” like everything else of his that I’ve seen, is a masterpiece of narration. ( When I become a producer I shall buy Mr. Seastrom’s services at whatever figure he may name, throw any and all available scripts out the window, get him a gang of pretty good actors and make a million out of whatever yarn he decides to spin around them.) This “Scarlet Letter” thing is something to go to see, sit through, write home about, figure into the fabric of the screen’s future and base plans upon. The plot is too well known for easy production. The period is one hard to reproduce attractively. The subject matter presents its problems. Seastrom had one chance of success and innumerable chances of failure. He hit like a tidal wave. I should tell you that Lillian Gish is better in this picture than in anything she has done, for Griffith or others; that Lars Hanson and others are successful individually and collectively in their undertakings; but I cannot get away from the director. So far as I’m concerned it’s Victor Seastrom’s picture and as soon as I get my Wall Street connections lined up I'm going after his services and the several million dollars they’ll earn for me. ADDITIONAL T' hey are breaking out “Old Ironsides” the night this book goes to press and if I succeed in buying, begging or stealing my way into the Auditorium theatre I shall tell you about Mr. Cruze’s picture next week. Mr. Cruze, like Messrs. Seastrom, Neilan, Nihlo, Lubitsch and one or two others, tells his stories. Others re-tell them. The report of “Sorrows of Satan” promised for this week is deferred for reasons indicated above. I couldn’t bear the thought of additional sorrow within seven days, even Satan’s. Reports in “WJiat the Picture Did for Me” on pictures I’ve complained of recently in this place show me to be uniformly in error. The ones I've liked are going good also. Can it mean that there are no bad pictures? If the pretty good actor ivho answers his fan mail with the suggestion that the gals write me urging that I boost him doesn’t cut it out I am going to boot him right where it will do the most good with all the harsh words in this typewriter.