Variety (Jan 1949)

24 PICTIJBIi!$( A Dog Is a Dog Is a Dog .By ASHTON STEVENS' WIREHAIR Chicago. How'd I get this funny name, Extra? Well, since all you lady and gentleman dogs say that lies are bM«d in this delightfully forested Valhalla where decent members of our species meet after their short term on earth, 111 have to tell the embarrassing truth. I laooed up a big drink of water just before my Mr. Mr^ took me from the kennels to their car. I was only ^ix weeks Z Se day these good people adopted me —and my eyes were bigger than my kidneys. A newsboy on a street comer was crying "Extra!" and my Mr. hastily Soug. t a pape™ for blotting purposes rather than reading Soses, and said to our Mrs., "I guess that's his name- ^ So^'l was stuck with the name throughout the 15 years I lived With them down there, despite a registered pedi- gree which certified my right to be called Tweed of Cres- cent n But it wasn't a bad name for a newspaperman s dog And there was a time when it got me written up in other columns than my Mr.'s, and even mentioned on the "■That was the day I got lost. That was the day the world down there was momentarily expecting news that a second World War had started. But my Mrs. was more worried about me than about war. She shouted out the window to the children playing in our street, "I'H give $5 to the kid that finds Extra!" Five minutes later 50 ,l"ds were chasing the neighborhood and shrieking "Extra! Extra!" and the grownups were hoisting their windows and turning on their radios to hear whether Hitler had taken London or ■"" l^fiw York ' That story got into several Chicago papers, and when next day poor, lost and half-starved me answered to his name called out by a couple of cops in a squad car and was by them delivered home a sadder and wiser pup, a great friend of all four-footed folk told my Mrs. that the happy ending of my adventure was proof positive that Dog's best friend, is Publicity. That lady was Mrs. Irene Castle MacLaughlin Enzinger. Mrs. Fiske and Me Another famous friend of our kind who Wfs alflWS mighty nice to me was Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske, She more than loved dogs, she respected them, never babied them, never sentimentalized them. 1 worshipped that lady for the fine things she had done for our kind, but I don t mind telling you dogs that there were times when her talk to my Mrs. scared me stiff everywhere but the tail. That would be when Mrs. Fiske got going on sometiiing I think was called Theosophy, or Metenpsychosis, or Transmigration of Souls. Anyhow, her talks to my IVIrs, about reincarnation made me dread the thought of my last day on earth—I was afraid I'd wake up in some other world and find myself a polecat, or a pound-man, or even a newspaperman. Wot, mind, that newspapermen didn't have their good moments. I have no complaints of the one who made a place for my bed right behind the desk in his workroom. 1 still remember every sniff and sight of that little library: our wonderful Cook, tiptoeing in with a sly biscuit for me; the dog-doting secretary, the Mr.'s "beautiful taker- downer," taking his dictation on the typewriter beside the desk; my laughing little Mrs. with a heart of gold and a will of iron (she Was my only real boss), in and out of the low red leather, chair by tlie broad windows; and my lazy- voided Mr. seated on the long sofa, slowly intoning the day's prose, with now and then a wink for me, for although we iiever slobbered over each other we were understand- ing pals from the day he gave me my funny name. There was another personality that 1 had reason to es- teem highly, in that little library workroom—^the inscribed picture of Mr. William Randolph Hearst, which hung be- side the desk on the only wall not loaded to the ceiling with bookshelves. Of course, I esteemed this gentleman for his excellent taste in having employed my Mr.'s pen for half a century, but there were other arguments in his favor, and I don't mean only his historic battles with the viviseetionists. Brother and sister- dogs, let me tell you what I heard Francis X: Bushman tell my Mrs. about his dogs and Mr. Hearst. Mr, Bushman and Mr. Hearst For one reason or another that has never been satisfac- torily explained to my Mr. or me, Francis X. Bushman, a fabulous hero of the silent screen, was left high, dry and broke. He needed money, fast, and all he had left to sell were his famous Great Danes. He could think of only one purchaser worthy of owning these beautiful giants. He walked half a mile to tell Mr. Hearst his need and offer him his dogs, Mr. Hearst said, "Mr. Bushman, I couldn't thinli: of taking them away from you." The jobless,' moneyless actor trudged sadly home, won- dering into Whose strange hands his friends would fall. An envelope from-the publisher had preceded him. It con- tained a considerable cheque and a note which read, "I hope the enclosed will enable the dogs to stay where they belong." It wasn't all work in my Mr.'s little workroom. Friends had a.nice way of dropping in from everywhere: The un- failingly unannounced and ever welcome Mr. Frederick Lonsdale, from London or Hollywood; with hardly a word about his newest play or movie and hundreds of jolly words about nothing in particular; the sometimes silent Miss Claudia Cassidy, from her lovely but dogless home around the corner, who had a way of looking at me that said very plainly, "If X ever steal a dog, his name will be Extra"; the seldom silent Miss Ina Claire, from or to her adopted and my Mr.'s native San Francisco, whose silver tattle laughed at everybody, including herself; and often, but not often enough, from any point of the compass, that unfailing friend of dogkind and mankind, whom all of us, from Mr. Fred Allen to Mr. Frank B. Smith, called the Great Gene Fowler because he was indeed a great Mr. Fowler. I Andllten There Was Mr. Woollcott | Dogs, I can't begin to name all the friends of our racO' who popped in and out of that little library, leaving laugh- ter behind them and the warmth of thoir fellowship. One of the rarest of these was Mr. Alexander Wollcott, ivho.se words more than those of any other autlior made mankind conscious of its solemn debt to the Sceing-Eye Dog. "Alec,"' as be was called by my Mr. and other old chums, Forty-third /^agZElTr Annhersgiy could give, ot even take, his Uttte joke on practic»lly any '"TheCTception was the subject of Dogs; lie would laugh With a dog, but not about him. I'll never forget the after- noon Mr. Woollcott sat. overflowingly in my Mr.'s red leather chair and suggested to my Mr. that he forget his passion for the tribe known as Wire-Haired Fox Temers and procure (no offense to any Poodle present) one of those fantastically barbered French Poodles. Mv Mr., after exchanging a Masonic squint of under- standing with me, said he was afraid he'd have to get along with his lowly Wirehair. Mr. Woollcott said he was sorry my Mr. wouldn't invest in a French Poodle because by doing so he would be eligible to write a chapter in Mr. Woollcott's projected book on that animal, along with such distinguished Poodle-owning contributors as Miss Gertrude Stein, Miss Helen Hayps, Mr. Charles MacArtliur, Miss Ruth Gordon, Mr. Clifton Webb, Miss Dorotliy Parker, and Mr. Lucius Beebe'. "It will be a remarkable book," vowed Mr. Woollcott. "And no doubt," my Mr. laughed, "win a Poodlitzer Prize." But Mr. Woollcott, although himself a punster whose playfulness with words had grieved the emboned for many years, did not join my Mr. in laugiiter. He ]ust looked hurt. I hope the hurt was not permanent-^but he never produced the book. Maybe Mr. Woollcott will tell me about it, if I ever see him again. And I have an uninstructed trUst that I shall see him again. My dear Dogs, I have a belief that this place of happiness lies only halfway ott the upward road to that Elysium where a good dog will again be the good companion of his Mr.. . Don't Worry About Tele-It's Only A Passing Fad That's Here to Slay By HARRY RUBY Hollywood. When I was a young lad (which was so long ago that you can count the years on the fingers of both hands). I was giving a small but inexpensive dinner to a group of true and untried friends. Radio, which then was still in its infancy, was. the subject of dis- cussion. Wrier^ will it lead? What, will it do to show busihess? I sisked, , My appreliensions weye soon set to rest by one of the guests, One Mor- timer Indexj who assured me (and I quote): "It's just : another one of those new-fangled gadgets that'll be, forgotten soon as the novelty wears off." This notion was seconded and passed, unanimously, and we- went on to a more interesting' Subject .wiiicli is always discussed by hien when:, women are not present; Not too many years later, when radio had already got a firm enough toe-hold to assure us . that it was here to stay, I was bulping down the matutinal meal at the old Friars Club with a biftieh of old Friars; among them, Violinsky, who is my candidate for an Academy award, if the Academy ever gives an award for real witticismw Said Violinsky, after a sip of Java: "If you don't think radio is killing everything, taste this coffee." Came along another new-fangled gadget entitled Talk- ink Pictures. Fearful of what this-might-lortoken, what, this might do to us fellers who were writing shows, I was toying with the idea of getting out of town and learning a new trade. Again I was assured that my apprehensions were unfounded; and by the same Mortimer Index, who was endowed with a genius for peering into the future and seeing nothing. "You go't nothinV to worry 'about," said Index. "Did you hear the way those blankety-blank talkies scratch?" I reminded him that phonograph rec- ords used to scratch when they first came out, but that they don't any more. "That's different," said he, blowing a thick cloud of cigar smoke in the face of the girl next to him, who happened to be my wife. He . went on to explain that Talking Pictures would never be a success because people go to the movies to relax. "How can you relax," he wanted to know, "when you're seeing a movie that talks, plays music, and makes all kinds of noises?" I reminded him that Fulton's steam- boat, when it first steamed up the Hudson, Was looked upon as one of them—there new-fangled gadgets that would never amount to anything. This didn't even make a dent. "It won't be long," he postulated, "before there'll forget about these Talkies. There'll always be Silent Pictures.",'' Much as I hate to, 1 must admit that the guy was right. In a sleepy little town called Fnu, which nestles at the foot of a hill 20 miles this side of Upper Tibet, there ts a movie theatre, a 6Q.«eater, that's still showing Silent Pictures. Wednesday, Jamnary S, 1949 Flicker Flashbacks Harry Ruby Cohan's Nifty— Or the More Things Change the More They Are the Same, Especially in Hollywood By EZRA GOODMAN Hollywood. The "oUyWood of 35 years ago was not fundamentally different from the Hollywood of today; pf course, in that era you could buy a man's elegant,-all-wool suit, made to order, for only $9.85, and there/ were ads in the newspapers and magazines advising the reader that the tobacco habit could be banished in 48 to 72 hours, but aside from relatively minor matters like that, the cinema scene was pretty much what it is today. The Kalem studio had released a picture entitled "The Apaches of Paris." Its climactic scene was as follows: "There was a cry from the men who had raised Lloyd, as a wallet was taken from his inner pocket. The dagger had pierced the wallet, which was filled with papers. The officer sprang forward with a cry. He examined the "papers a moment. " 'Here are the plans of every fortress in Paris! This man is a notorious spy. He will be shot at daybreak. I thank you, and shall ask you to appear later at the caserne.' "Paula and Tom were left alone with the last of the tragedy. Paula had been purged clean of. soul. She stood looking at the man who had come back for her. "'Even now?'she asked, in a low voice. " 'Yes; now and always—my love is deeper than sur^ ■ face scars." ■ "Then he led her to the side of the deathbed, where she turned and wept on his breast. THE END." It this doesn't convince you that time doesn't always march oh, in those years J. Stuart Blackton's big screen success was "The Battle Cry of Peace," an anti-war pic- ture: Blackton, in a foreword to the film, addressed to the Mothers Of America, said: "As a nation we must not only be champions of peace and of the laws of hu- manity, but we must have the power to enforce those laws—the power to insure that peace." Those words strike a familiar chord today. Thirly-five years ago some of the current attractions were: "Jim West, Gambler," "Her Happiness,". "A Shriek in the Night," "The Battle of Elderbush Gulch" and "The Curious Case of Meredith Stanhope." Ernest Dench wrote an article: "How the British Learn America from Motion Pictures,'' pointing out the inter-, national influence of the screen. Much newspaper and magazine space was devoted to proving that motion pictures are a tonic for tlie eyes and that the "flicker" had been taken out of movies. "A couple of hours at a good moving picture show not only rests your mind, but also your eyes," argued one edi». torialist. There is still some controversy as to the former. Those Interviews——Even Then! The same things that were said about Radio and the Talkies are now being said about the newest of the new- fangled gadgets: Television. "You got nothing to worry about," said Mortimer Index. "This idea that's it's gonna keep people home, away from theatres and places, is nuts." Then, not knowing he was quoting the late George M. Cohan, he added: "The only thing that'll keep ji guy home is a beautiful dame." Now, I don't claim to be the smartest fellow in the world, unless I'm forced to, but I can't go along with the Mortimer Indexes who thinks that everything we've got is better than anything we're gonna get. Bucking in- exorable progress is like getting in the way of an on- coming truck: you go along with it or you get run over. It's like trying to stop a tidal wave with a tennis racket. I may be wrong (there's always a first time), bint, as to Television, I don't think it should be a source of worry to any oner—except those who are not in it. Many years ago, an uncle of mine, who had true sibyl- line foresight, said: "Why don't they let well enough alone?" He was referring to a new kind of razor that just come on the market, invented by a man named Gil- lette. The straight razor, he argued, was good enough. My father disagreed with him. The argument became heated. "Mark my word," said my uncle', shaking his finger in Dad's face, "the safety razor will never take the place of the horse and carriage." He stomped out of the house, and we haven't seen him since. Screen personalities were giving out interviews and they were already discussing such fascinating subjects as whether they preferred the stage to.the screen or, vice versa and the fact that, if they were comedians, they would like to play heavies, and vice versa. - In a letter-to-the-editor departm'ent in one publication, the editor became quite exercised about a communication he had received from a young feminine film fan. He re- plied; f'We do not answer questions about the relation-f ship and marriage of the players unless we happen to know the answers. We do not care to write to the players and say: 'Are you married?' Most of them would not answer anyway, and if they did, half of the answers would be wrong. Again, we think that a player has. a right to some privacy which we do not eare to pry into. If a player is marriedj single or unmarried (divorced), and does not wish it to be known, we respect those Wishes until the information, becomes public property. We frequently state that so and so is married, but we de- cline to make this a matrimonial, bureau, and we do not, care to seek information of this kind for the benefit of those who are so anxious for it. . In most ca.ses requests of this, kind come from young girls who become unduly intersted in the players." Readers were already spotting movie boners. : One moviegoer wrote: "A careless mistake I have noticed i* as follows: Subtitle: 'Agnes, at the age of 5," where a little girl, dark-eyed and dark-haired, enters; then (sub- title): 'Fifteen years later;' and behold! Agnes is • dazzling'blonde!" . Ad Libs Under Fire The two best ad4ibs I ever heard came within a half-hour of each other. Our USO unit was flying from Port Moresby, New Guinea, to Townsville, Australia, during tlie summer of 1944. We had ,been flying at about 16,000 feet and had to descend quite suddenly for reasons best known -to the pilot. A. Canadian soldier, sitting in the bucket seat on my right, turned to me and said,"! beg your pardon, does the ringing in my ears annoy you?'' . ; After landing at Townsville and refueling, we piled hack in the plane for our next takeoff. But the crew chief couldn't get the exit door closed. He pull^d, banged, wrenched and swore profusely but nothing happened. Meanwhile, the motors were revved MP, we all had our seat belts fastened and everything waited upon the crew chief, a ser|eant. Finally the pilot came out of the cockpit. "What the hell's the matter," he asked genially. "I'm sorry, sir." said the sergeant, "but this door won't close. "Go on." said the pilot, "Sure it'll close; try it again." The sergeant tried it again. He strained hk* Samson but the results were futile. . . "No use, sir," said the sergeant, "that door is ]ust not. going to close." "Let me take a look," said the pilot. He did. He looked long and earnestly. Finally he stood back. ,. "Sergeant," he said, "doft't say that door wont close! That door's GOT to close. It's been approved by Good Housekeeping." Lorrj/ AAler