The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

Shoppers, strollers, flowerpeddlers, newsboys, ice-wagons, limousines, street cars, movie cowboys, real cowboys, moochers, magnates, movie stars, bums, lowans looking for other lowans, beauty parlor blondes, more blondes, roadsters, touring cars — Hollywood Boulevard on parade! DRAWINGS BY KEN CHAMBERLAIN vard on a clear night. We gaze down to where we know the Boulevard should be — and what we see is fabulous: a rope of sparkling diamonds, of glowing rubies and flashing emeralds and sapphires, though the predominant gems are the ruby and the diamond. At dawn, from this same exalted eminence, we look again — and see a sewerlike glimpse of rolling smudge! That's Hollywood Boulevard. That's what, in Hollywood, they call the Boulevard. There are many boulevards in Hollywood, but when people say the Boulevard, they mean only that one. You have, of course, heard Ravel's "La Valse." I am sure Ravel never saw Hollywood. But he has, in "La Valse," caught the spirit of the city, of the Boulevard — its slow, almost furtive awakening, the gradual increase of activities, of intensity — the raucous, splendid, jarring dissonances. And that's Hollywood Boulevard — the Boulevard set to waltz time. It is night. Grauman's Chinese Theatre is putting on a World Premiere. The big shots will all be there. In fact, they're beginning to arrive. Searchlights on humming power-trucks sweep the skies and make you think of air raids. The sidewalks are packed with fans who have been waiting there since noon to gape at the celebs. A regiment of cops is on hand to hold the mob back and let the luminaries through. Perhaps Wallace Beery is at the mike, introducing the big shots to the worshipful mob. Cheers go up as favorites arrive. In all your life you never saw such beautiful women, such beautifully-gowned women, or such handsome men. Sex appeal on parade ! Here comes a handsome, dashing fellow in silk topper and long tails. The charming creature with him is his wife. He is a wellknown actor — a free-lance who is paid $1,000 a week when he works. But he is improvident. He gambles. Out of work for a week, he is dead broke. Tonight sees him a month away from his last pay check. The gas com The New Movie Magazine, January, 1935 pany has turned off the gas in his house. The electric company has turned off the electricity. The water company, true to its word, will turn off the water tomorrow. Neither he nor his wife has eaten since yesterday morning. But here they come, suave and resplendent. Being so well known, he has passes to the opening. He pauses to sign a few signatures for the autograph hounds. He looks pale and interesting. How pale and interesting he looks ! Here comes a beautiful girl. Who is she? She is not quite known — not yet. She steps from a limousine. A handsome unknown escorts her. Who is she? Nobody knows or really cares. But she cares ! As the important arrivals go up the red carpet runner, the announcer calls them to the mike to say hello to the crowd. Will she be asked? Poised, utterly lovely — will she be asked? Will the announcer recognize her? It is a terrific moment for that ambitious young lady. She starts up the red runner toward the theater entrance. She appears elaborately unconcerned. Her little heart is trip hammering. Cupped in her palm is the card containing the little speech she will give — if only the announcer will recognize her! His alert eyes glance at her, glance away. She is almost at the entrance when he shouts, "Ah, there, Miss So-and-So ! Won't you say hello to the crowd?" Miss So-and-So falters. It equals any acting she does before the camera. She hesitates and charmingly accedes to his request. She goes to the mike, stands prettily in the glaring floodlight and secretly reads the pretty little speech from the palm of her hand. "I really hadn't expected to say anything. All I will say is — hello, hello everybody !" Prettily done. Applause. Who is she, anyway? Her name is murmured. She has neatly acquired a thousand dollars' worth of free publicity. But perhaps that isn't very exciting. Very well. Here's some excitement — and a note of mystery. Broad daylight again. High noon on Wicked Boulevard. A sixteencylinder Cadillac comes rioting down the middle of the street. It is preceded by an escort of six motorcycle policemen. In the back seat, grinning, is James Cagney, the lad who treats 'em rough and makes 'em like it, who pushes the halves of grapefruit and cantaloupe into their faces — and makes 'em sputter for more ! A lovely lady sits on either side of Mr. Cagney. The sirens shriek. The cavalcade passes. I see no camera truck. I am curious. My companion explains. "Oh, they always give Cagney that motorcycle escort. It's to keep him out of trouble. He's such a hell-raiser." I doubted it. I still doubt it. A director to whom I mentioned the incident snorted. "Applesauce ! No star, good or troublesome, rates such an escort." "What's the answer?" "Hidden cameras!" You can't be here any length of time without forming an opinion. People ask for your opinion. They demand your opinion. What do you think about Hollywood? Few people really have opinions about anything. They are too prejudiced. Some people come to Hollywood thinking it is the most glorious place in the world. If they get the breaks, they keep on thinking so. Most of the people — the professional people — who leave Hollywood have another opinion, or they wouldn't be leaving. Hell hath no fury like the professional scorned. I can speak with authority of the writing gentlemen who are lured out here by short but fat contracts. One, who is typical, wrote a good book, a somewhat highbrow novel. Up to that time, he never made more than $3,000 a year in his life. His novel wasn't a best seller, but it caused talk, and it probably earned him $2,000 in royalties. He came to Hollywood, riding high, on a threemonths' contract at $1,000 a week. Add it up on your fingers (Please turn to page 60) 19 M