Talking Screen (Sep-Oct 1930)

Illustrated by Abril Lamarque A certain rip snorting type of executive — many of whom are quite human away from the movie metropolis — insists on all the homage paid a Hottentot chieftain, and shakes the studio walls when he doesn't get it. BY HERBERT skies to Mr. Jolson and Southern California alike. But just let friends-from-the-East arrive, and sure as God made Aimee McPherson, the City of Angels will be flooded with the torrential tears of all the Titans. ND when it rains in Hollywood there ain't no kiddin' about it. Things happen. For instance, sewers dry with ramble over brown-burned hills to sylvan glades. But you'll find no green pastures nor still waters. Even the briefest commune with nature, and you're grey from top to toesy with dust that likewise lashes your larynx . to a frenzy. 'HERE irrigation prevails, there are multi-hued flowers to delight the eye. But their seduction ends with that one sense. There isn't a scent in a conservatory full. The same sad state exists in the bountiful array of luscious looking fruits and vegetables which cannot fail to entrance your gaze. A delusion and a snare — deceptive and disappointing as a frigid red-head. They feed the eye, but prove tasteless to the tongue. To get from here to there, or vice versa, via the municipal transit CRU IKS HANK ^^^^ ^^p!"^^^ ^^p^' ment. Ihe cars are crowded and infrequent. And noisy as a dry on a drunk. The fare isn't. Isn't fair, I mean. "Transportation costs twice the New York rate. And that makes it tough on those who can't afi^ord the dollar down for an Austin. But like all else in Hollywood, there's an exception to the rule. In summer the transit companies issue cut-rate tickets that will take you long distances, like to Hellanback, for comparitive pittances. There are a' dozen beaches — but most of them have no bathing houses. And if you haven't car behind whose shades to stage the big disrobing number — that makes it tough on everyone except the neighbors. When you're through work there's nowhere to go but home. NIGHT life is nix. That is, publicly. Theres' no Tex to to call you sucker. No spots where genus homo may make a damned fool of itself en masse. And what fun is there in making whoopee back in the barn — or with the next door friends who will talk about you tomorrow. Hollywood won't support a cabaret. Fatty Arbuckle tried it and faw down. George Olsen is playing Mass's in de Col' Col' Groiin at his Plantation night club. Eddie Brandstatter's place is After working yourself to death all week you have to grab your salary on the run to shake the boys who want to let you in on gold mines with subdivisions and inside plumbing. the dust of ages brim over with mud. Dwellers in hill-side homes awaken to find half a mountain on the kitchen porch. There are landslides, cave-ins and washouts. There's water, water everywhere. And, as hereinbefore stated and set forth, not a drop to drink. 'When all the Elks' Conventions go back to Iowa, things become normal — the weather usual. Then for months on end you can watch your skin dry up and shrivel providing you can see through the fine coating of alkali covering the mirror. If you love the woods, like Ed Wynn, you may conciliating the creditors. '"Whoopee in the Home" is Hollywood's slogan. There are the movies, of course. Frequently the best ones are shown out of town first. Hollywood isn't considered firstrun. But you can see movies and stars, too, if you don't mind being trodden underfoot by hob-nailed Kansas boots and shoved around by yahoo cops. Show business, of course, is dying, Egypt, dying. Los Angeles won't pay more'n about six bits to see a play hot or cold. And the mere thought of {Continued on page g;] 41