The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

THE MOST EXCITING STREET ON EARTH Any street where human hearts are kicked around like footballs is bound to be wicked — but the glitter and dazzle of Hollywood Boulevard make us forget that, says GEORGE F. WORTS, author of novels and many scenarios WHEN I first saw Hollywood Boulevard,, it was a leisurely, beautiful street, lined with pepper trees and graced by ranches. Twenty years ago it wasn't the backyard of hell and heaven. It was neither clamorous nor glamorous, though it wasn't — it never was — a hick town street. But whatever it was has been forgotten, wiped from the memory, steam-rollered by the glitter and dazzle, the clack and clatter of what it has become. It still starts in a weary meadow, but it now ends in a tangle of hopeless hills and canyons. It must be fully six miles long, but most of it is stupid city street, or risky mountain road, or avenue of smugly respectable homes. Less than a dozen blocks of Hollywood Boulevard comprise the Hollywood Boulevard that has taken its place among the exciting thoroughfares of the world — Broadway, Piccadilly Circus, the Champs Elysees. Or name your own. The Hollywood Boulevard of celebrity — those less-than-a-dozen short blocks — is a sprightly metropolitan avenue on which satyrs prowl and strolling nymphs cause automobile drivers to ensnarl bumpers and sideswipe fenders. The satyrs wear — at the moment — sophisticated and calculating airs, sweaters, fancy scarfs about their collarless throats, no hats, and knife-edged trousers of pleasing hues, in the Clark Gable, or perhaps it is the Gary Cooper mode. These are Hollywood's boulevardiers. And the nymphs, mostly blondes, wear anything at all from bright and scanty shorts and brassieres to full battle regalia. No glimpse of Hollywood Boulevard would be complete without a consideration of that amazing hybrid, the Hollywood blonde, who imitates so loyally the blond star of the moment. In my brief sojourn, I have seen the Hollywood Boulevard blonde run the gamut from Greta Garbo to Jean Harlow to Mae West, always with a sprinkling of Connie Bennetts and Ann Hardings. Generally she has approximately a million dollars' worth of what the birds and the bee-zes sing about. The Hollywood blonde is really an amazing and singular young person. The fact is, she actually exists. There is, in Hollywood, a blonde that you see nowhere else. She has become as famous as her city. God knows what she is or what she does. She is an extra girl — perhaps. But Hollywood Boulevard, from early morning until late at night, is thronged with her. Only once in a while do I see a redhead. She went out with Clara 18 Bow. But as long as there are Greta Garbos, Jean Harlows and Mae Wests, the Hollywood blonde will remain a blonde — and Hollywood. In a ten-minute walk, I will see one Mae West blonde per block — the large black hat, the high voluptuous bosom. But Hollywood Boulevard is not to be dismissed with a sneer, a jeer, or a leer. There are more sides to Hollywood Boulevard than there are facets on the Kohinoor. By day, the Boulevard is a hustling, bustling, crowding, clanking, honking boulevard of shoppers, strollers, flower-peddlers, ladies on the make, newsboys, ice wagons, fifteenthousand-dollar limousines, street cars, movie cowboys, real cowboys and ranchers, bums, moochers, movie magnates, movie stars, young folks looking for adventure, old folks looking for the fountain of youth, Iowans looking for other Iowans, beauty parlor blondes, more blondes, roadsters and touring cars bristling with tennis-rackets or golf sticks, actors out of work, directors out of work, writers looking for atmosphere or. inspiration or a free meal or a drink, and girls with stories in their faces. There are so many of these girls, and you wonder about the stories ! I have been in this enchanted market-place only a few months on this visit: — just long enough to gather a few lasting impressions which are neither scallions to my soul nor orchids in my garden of memory. I find it easy to give Hollywood Boulevard a California superlative — it is the most exciting street on earth ! Someone once called it Wicked Boulevard. The name hasn't stuck, but it fits. It is wicked. Any street down which human hearts are kicked like footballs is bound to be wicked. Any street which inspires false hopes, any street which sees the corruption of ideals, any street on which the suicide of tonight goes strolling today is wicked. I am not moralizing. I am merely digging around in my mind for the facts about Hollywood Boulevard. We go to a mountain high above the Boule The New Movie Magazine, January, 1935