We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
Lansing Brown
Y
writing
OUR impressions of our great and progressive city?" I challenged Walter Byron. I had been old-fashioned enough to wait a decent interval after Mr. Byron's arrival in Hollywood before my interview. The more up-to-date magazines already had his first thoughts on America, the name of his favorite poet and his views on divorce humming through the printing-presses — when he was still on the Atlantic.
"Let me see," pondered Vilma Banky's newly imported movie swain. "Perhaps my most gratifying discovery here has been that I could continue to sing my favorite song in my hath every morning without fear of contradiction. The song, you know, is 'There is a Tavern in the Town.' "
He pondered further. There seemed to be a constriction of some sort in his "impressions-of-your-city" outlet.
"Ah, die motor horns," he said finally. "That is a point of interest, I think. I have just spent some weeks in Paris making a picture, and the 'toot-toot' and 'pip-pip' of those taxi horns still ring in my cars. Now they inform me that Los Angeles lias more cars in it than the whole of France and Italy put together. Each one is equipped with a klaxon, but you never hear anybody use it."
"Mr. Byron," I put in, "don't tell me that on your first visit to America and Hollywood the only things that have struck you are the motor horns and the fact that there is a tavern in the town?"
"Well, not exactly," he replied, a little abashed. "There was, for example, the expression on the faces of the motorists who passed me when I took a fifteen-mile
42
etter
Than He
(c)Xpected
Walter Byron Left England Prepared for Jolly Well Anything, So Even Hollywood Didn't Give Him Much of a Pain
By Cedric Belfrage
morning stroll to Burbank and back yesterday. I gather that anybody who uses his two feet here is regarded as more or less potty. Am "ght?" But, Mr. Byron," I cried in alarm, ignoring hs question, "Hollywood? The stars? The parties? The studios ? The climate ? Miss Banky ? The Montmartre ? The Grove — the Beach Club — the Morgue ? The palatial Beverly homes ?" He boggled blankly at me ^gsg^m^.
as the questions came. I
"The whisky?" I added, clutching desperately at this last straw.
Scotching Insubordination
Oe brightened. "Oh, yes, 1 had some up at Louis Wolheim's place the other day — wonderful stuff, exactly the •same as we get over the bar in Leicester Square." There was another pause. "Come to think of it, Sam Goldwyn gave me a snifter one time, too. It was the day I got temperamental and threatened to take the next train home."
Mr. Byron relapsed into musing melancholy. He did not appear to be having a particularly fruity time in Holly(Coiitiiwcd on page 104)