International photographer (Jan-Dec 1941)

yoims TRuly, inorman Alley Charles Saxton. Hollywood writer, just returned from New York, has turned over to us two interesting personal letters, sent to him by Newsreeler Alley during a recent survey sojourn in South America where, in addition to his NEWS OF THE DAY credentials, he carried the goodwill folio of Jock Whitney and Nelson Rockefeller. The two missives, which may just as well have been open letters to all Americans, speak for themselves. Space permits publication of only one letter. I Editorial note. I RIO, Tues. 27th. Dear Charlie: Well, here I am in South America — and what a relief it is to see beautiful senoritas and smiling hombres everywhere I turn instead of scowling storm troopers and jittery air raid wardens! I'm parking the body at the Copacabana Palace, which is like one of the swank hostels in pre-hostile Europe. Portuguese is Brazils mother tongue, though Spanish suffices commercially, but you would have died had you been here to see me make my bow at this Brazilian Biltmore by barging boldly into the lobby with a SpanishAmerican dictionary thumbed open to just the right page. The Oxonian room clerk and the bellhops looked at me with that same piteous curiosity as that evidenced in those gals of Gaul when I shavetailed into France in '17. I was only here 24 hours when I fell heir to a red-hot newsreel story. Paradise took French leave of this Portuguese town when Ole Man Mercury hotfooted to 105 above. But lens journalists, like the U. S. Mail, are never chased to cover by cyclone, deluge, death, taxes, or hellish heat. I lost no time in making a news movie which should have been captioned THE WHOLE TOWN'S COOKING. The Rio Chamber of Commerce was quick to assure me that such weather was most unusual — but who am I to dispute the word of such an august body, even though it wasn't August? I come from Southern California! Thirty-five victims of Senor Sol, but — curiously enough — those most serious laid low were native Brazilians. I made some cheesecake shots at Copacabana Beach, to which most of the sizzling citizenry that look good in bathing suits fled from the swelter of the metropolis. The temperature delightfully dropped in time for the Carnival at Rio, which is a colorful cross between the New Orleans Mardi Gras and the one at Coney Island. We had a lot of fun. When I say we, I include Juan What'shis-name. Juan, who would make a good bullfighter were one able to find a bull that could make the weight, is my selfappointed leg man, pack mule, and guide par excellence. An hombre like Juan makes it easy for me to wend my South American way. I always fall heir to a fellow like Juan, rergardless of what part of the world I may be in. They fade into my life in strange ways. Sometimes I win one of them in a poker game, or find one panting hungrily at my doorstep. But all I know is that I'm no longer than a day or so in some strange sector or on a new front when I turn around to find one at my elbow. If you remember, Charlie, in far-off Shanghai and Nanking, it was Chinese Joe. At Canton, it was big-eared Billikin. In Spain, it was Esteben. In Chicago, a Jewish boy named Looie. During the Holland invasion it was Fritz, and here in Rio it's Juan. Juan is one of those Forgotten Men you'll always remember. He's as proud of his English as I am ashamed of my Spanish, and some of the dialect tidbits he tosses my way are lulus. When I asked him who was his favorite movie actor he grunted and exclaimed, "Palookas!" Well, it was three days later before I found out that, instead of calling Hollywood actors "palookas," he was telling me he liked Paul Lukas! Speaking of Hollywood, I went to a movie on my first evening over in the Serrador Center. I caught Jesse James in the native tongue. Jesse James, pronounced in the Spanish manner, would sound like Hethie Hymie, and that brings me to another interesting point in this fascinating business of speaking Spanish. Somewhere I had been told once that the real reason the Spanish pronounce their soft "c" and esses like tee-aitch was because of an original diplomatic device of the royal yesmen to cover up a Spanish king who lisped. After consulting the Castilian of several well-informed Hioites, I still lack proof that such was the case. The weather, continuing nice, got to the point where it was yelling "fore" to all gadabouts of the green, and my camera galleried President Gitulio Vargas at a round of golf. Vargas jockeys a fair niblick, Charlie, and an intimate close-up of the man causes me to readily appreciate why those two farmers who plowed up the world's largest diamond in the bed of the River of Saint Anthony named the 726carat gem after him. Yessir, Gitulio Vargas is the Rio McCoy! At the 19th hole, Vargas cooled off with something that resembles our own Kentucky mint julep. As we stood by and watched, Juan turned toward my nearest ear and half whispered: "El President ees like beeg feesh!" Well, that crack struck me as approximating les majeste and high treason, until my English-fungoing oneman safari explained that what he meant was that Vargas likes to go deep-sea fishing for the big ones! That President Vargas likes to go fishing got me to wishfully thinking that it would be great should he and Franklin D. form an angling twosome in the Caribbean some day soon. It would be a rare privilege indeed to listen in on them at the end of a fisherman's perfect day, as they might try to convince each other as to how big the one was that got away. A news movie that I'd go a long way to make would be that one showing the two democratic chieftains swapping fish stories in the salon of the palatial presidential yacht. Vargas would stretch his arms to the straining point, and aver, "Senor Roosevelt, I once caught a sailfish this size — and with a pin hook." Then I can see FDR topping him by describing an experience with one the length of the long dining table. Vargas would blink, take a deep breath, and up it one even longer than the banquet table — until, finally, our own president, who never has had much to do with small fry, would essay description of a fish to end all fish by saying: "Well, neighbor, I once caught a tiger shark that reached from yonder porthole to uhh, let's see — yes, from there to — aw shucks, Gitulio, let's go out on deck where there's enough room to talk of such things!" All of which would be swell, Charlie, because smiling men who tell white lies about the size of the fish they've caught, or who throw an expensive bag of clubs into the brook when they miss a shot that would be a fairly tough one for even a Bobby Jones, are without exception the type of peace-loving fellows who will put their shoulders together when the showdown comes and fight like hell for the continuance of Life, Liberty, and the undisturbed Pusuit of Happiness. Don't you think so, Charlie? Buenos noches, pal — and more next week. Norman. CIIVEX Light Testers — Polishers used by all Major Studios. We are the sole Manufacturers and Distributors. Manufacturer of 16mm and 35mm Recording Heads, Developing Machines, Bipack Color and Black and White Printers, Rewinds. Special Machinery built to order. CINEMA ARTS-CRAFTS 914 No. Fairfax HE 1984 Hollj-wood, Calif. Cable Address: "CINEBARSAM" International Photographer for December, 1941 17