Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

64 T h S t r o 1 1 e r Astonishing talk about the movies is heard on a cross-country stroll. By Carroll Graham Illustrated by Lui Trugo ONCE upon a time there was a slightly demented chap who decided to perfect — no, that's not the word — invent a process for making pictures talk as well as move. After a time, he finished the job and tried it out on friends and relatives, who received the demonstration in kind and sympathetic silence. "What do you think of it ?" "Well, as a means of keeping you home nights, and getting your mind off business worries, it's all right, I guess," answered a less kindly soul, probably a cousin, "but what are you going to do with it?" "I'm going to take it out to Hollywood and sell it." They pleaded with him, but in vain. They argued, threatened, and cajoled. His wife burst into tears. "Think — think of the children if this should get out," she sobbed. Nothing could swerve, him from his dire purpose. With the gimmick under his arm, he boarded a train for Hollywood and began, some days later, to besiege the studios. Eventually he met one of the Warner Brothers. Ordinarily film producers are quite -difficult persons to see, but there are so many of the brothers Warner that, by the law of averages, you are bound to run across one of them eventually, if you stay in town long enough. So the Warner Brothers bought this man's invention, and thus began an era in Hollywood which probably will go down in history as the Three Years' Plague. Other producers, with that originality for which the film industry is noted, began to make talking pictures, and pretty soon it got so you couldn't sleep in any theater any more. The town went even -crazier than before. This does not sound possible, but I have documentary evidence to prove it. Tons and tons of talking pictures were made, thousands and thousands of dollars was spent in buying equipment and hiring experts and building sound-proof stages. To pay for all this, stenographers were fired, the quota of pencils allotted to the scenario departments was cut in half, and the picture business Where safety razors are not safety razors acted generally as you would expect the inmates of an asylum to perform, when they believe they are doing something immensely important. So I decided to go to New York. It was the farthest away I could get, without making an ocean voyage, and I am a very poor sailor. Besides, I know a fellow who has a cousin who lives in New York, and I thought I'd like to look him up. You should have seen my departure. The station was draped with bunting. A band played appropriate airs. The platform was jammed with thousands of friends, stars, fans, and creditors. Charlie Murray was master of ceremonies and -told an Irish story. This latter was a special honor, inasmuch as he has never done this before. As the train pulled out, Jack Mulhall ran down the tracks, shouting frantically, "There's a place up on Forty-fourth Street where you can get real " The cheering of thousands drowned him out. A large, pasty gentleman with a pale-blue eye, and the emblem of the Sacred Order of Moose in his buttonhole, sat down opposite and regarded me intently. "What's your line?" he asked. "Pretty bad," I rejoined, the retort proving itself. "I mean, you're on the road, ain'tcha?" It was obvious that I was, at least for the time, and I confirmed his suspicion. "Whataya sell?" I thought that one over for a moment, and picked an article on which I am not remotely informed. "Threshing machines." "Yeh? That's funny. So am I." I said "Oh !" and went out to smoke a cigarette, whence he trailed me in a few moments. "You from Hollywood, ain'tcha?" "What makes you think so?" "Saw the label in your overcoat." I thought of entering into an involved story about having passed through Hollywood on my way to China, and of having purchased a coat there after giving my old one to an indigent