Variety (Jan 1949)

Record Details:

Something wrong or inaccurate about this page? Let us Know!

Thanks for helping us continually improve the quality of the Lantern search engine for all of our users! We have millions of scanned pages, so user reports are incredibly helpful for us to identify places where we can improve and update the metadata.

Please describe the issue below, and click "Submit" to send your comments to our team! If you'd prefer, you can also send us an email to mhdl@commarts.wisc.edu with your comments.




We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.

Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.

so PICTtntKS Forty' third ^HIEfY Anniversary Wednesday, January 5, 1949 THE KNOCKOUT By JAMES J. GELLER= Hollywood. Over at the First International Pictures Studios in Hol- lywood you'll find one of the best equipped gyms in the Golden State. It even contains a regulation size prize ring. Unfortunately, very few of the $2,500-a-week ex- ecutives ever avail themselves fully of the great and noble Art of Keeping Fit. And then, it's only for the purpose of Occasionally receiving the soothing ministra- tions of "Doc" O'Keefe, the husky masseur. , The roped arena in the studio gym can truly be attrib- uted to the unflagging zeal of its original sponsor, Cleve Horton, the ace producer of long and honorable standing. Horton is mortgaged to the lore on the manly art of self- flefense. His private office at the studio is appropriately adorned With the yellowish prints and lithographs of John C Heenan and Tom Sayers squaring off under the hot rays of the noonday sun during their famous encounter in 1859; the Boston Strong Boy, the immortal John L. Sullivan, mustache and all, facing the game little English- man, Charlie Mitohelli at Chantilly, France, as they were caught by an imknqwn artist more than 60 years ago; and « superb collection of the George Bellows prints of the pHze ring. Over his mahogany bookcase you'll find a pair of dark brown boxing gloves which Horton claims are the Identical ones which wrought so much l^aypc to the anat^ omy of Jess Willard during that memorable afternoon in the summer ot 1919 at Toledo; Ohio. Don't ever sell Cleve Horton short merely as a fight fan; he has soared beyond that goal. He talks, acts, dreams *nd lives in the exciting atmosphere of pugilism. One of his'fahiiliar caprices while lording over a story confer- i ence is to leap suddenly out of his chair and without the ' slightest provocation, remove his coat and begin shadow boxing with "a phantom opponent. Horton cherishes a secret ambition. If it leaked out beyond this balmy Cali- fornia periphery, the rest of the world would learn that his lifelong goal is to experience the pleasant sensation of clipping an adversary for the full count. Even though Horton first opened his eyes in the mid-'8Qs, he labors under the delusion that his fists pack the necessary lethal power to accomplish this feat. * * * Promptly at 3:30 one afternoon, Horton called it a day «nd rushed off to the gym. "Get 'em on, Chuck!" he called to Chuck Dorsey when he entered the gym. Dorsey, a tough old ex-pug, was listed on the studio payroll as "trainer". Presently the elderly Horton emerged, stripped in fancy boxing trunlcs and shoes and bandaged hands, followed by Dorsey who was likewise prepared for action. Behind them came "Doc" O'Keefe rigged up as referee, carrying the boxing gloves under his arm. Keeping pace with him was Al Raymond, a studio hanger-on who doubled as sec^ t ond and timekeeper. ' Horton was the first to crawl through the ropes, accom- panied by the faithful triumvirate. He walked over to the rosin box, rubbed the soles of his feet firmly and then went through the preliminary motions of unlimbering his muscles by pulling the top rope strand in one of the cor- ners of the ring. 'Next, he hopped over briskly to another corner and stood with his hack to the post, until Raymond, as his loyal second, slid a stool under him. He sat eyeing Dorsey as O'Keefe laced his opponent's gloves. At a signal from O'Keefe, he bounced to the center of the ring, closely followed by Raymond who began massaging his; back mechanically. "How do you feel, Chuck?" he asked. ' "In the pink," replied Dorsey. "That's fine," concluded Horton as he flexed his muscles. "When I blow the whistle come to the center and begin ■s usual. Just like you're both pros," said O'Keefe, with his two arms around the shoulders of the two boxers as he explained instructions. "No hitting in the clinches. Break cleanly. In the event of a knockdown, the lucky man must go to a neutral corner." "Look here," exclaimed Horton to Chuck, "I want you to really cut loose. Dish it out. I can take it." "Okay." replied Dorsey sheepishly. "Remember, I don't want you to pull your punches," ■dmonished Horton with expressive gestures. , Dorsey searched O'Keefe's face but was rewarded with • stony glance. "You get what I mean," warned Horton. "I want this to be a real match for three rounds. Not a workout." "Can you stand it?" queried Dorsey. "You bet I can!" solemnly aflJirmed the older man. "May the best man win," volunteered O'Keefe. After shaking their gloved hands, both contestants re- turned to their respective corners. ' Thus far, barring an audience, everything was accord- ing to the Marquess of Queensbury rules. Again Horton went to work nimbly on the top rope itrand while the impassive Dorsey stood diagonally op- posite him. O'Keefe blew his whistle. Horton turned around swiftly and met Dorsey in the center of the ring. The former led with a left hook. Dorsey attempted to follow suit hut missed Horton by a yard, Horton countered with one—two—three left jabs In lightning succession. He began stalking Dorsey, search- ing for an opening to throw his right . When the oppor- tunity arose, Dorsey was perverse enough to roll, his jaw neatly with the blow. Both men were in close quarters. Horton gave ground and resumed jabbing furiously. This time Dorsey playfully planted a harmless left to Horton s face, Horton moved in closer. Dorsey commenced re- treating backwards. Continuing the offensive,^ Horton piled up a series of snappy Ifeft-hand jolts without receiv- ing anything in return. His blows apparently carried no sting but nevertheless his opponent appeared to be in trouble. Horton swung a right but -Dorsey. covered up feebly. Horton pursued his quarry. He worked his hands in Dorsey's face like a piston. Dorsey attempted to re- taliate wildly but the other man shuffle,d gracefully out of range. Horton's confidence mounted correspondingly. Now he permitted Dorsey to score a few light punches without putting up a defense. Dorsey could not hurt him. He would soon find but. They continued to spar and Horton deliberately stepped into a right to his nose. The impact sounded more like a friendly pat. The men clinched and Horton angrily shouted, "Hit me hard! Dorsey perplexed blinked his eyes. Stepping back, he let go with a forced grunt which he timed simultaneously with a left to Horton's ribs. It might have resulted in a real casualty, were it not for the fact that he hit Horton with an opened glove. "Harder!" insisted Horton. "Okay," murmured the cauliflower veteran. They con- tinued sparring. Dorsey found it more expedient not to avoid the harmless pokes of his older adversary.. Again Horton directed him to strike with more force. Suddenly, Dorsey let. loose with the old one-two. This transformjea Horton into a Mount Vesuvius in eruption. He waded fearlessly into battle. Both men now stood toe to toe, exchanging a flurry of stinging rights and lefts; only Dor- sey's efforts were still puny. Horton fought savagely like the logical heir of'the first cave roan. He threw a deadly right hook which landed on the point of Dorsey's jaw, causing him to crumple forthright on the canvas. He lay on his back with both hands and feet stretched out. O'Keefe motioned Horton to a neutral comer and began the count. The latter heavily drank in the proceedings with almost the same satisfaction that came over Jack Dempsey when he Anally lulled the Wild Bull of the Pampas to sleep at the Polo Grounds. The perspiring Horton finally accomplished his vain ambition. Looking down at Dorsey while he tolled the fleeting seconds, O'Keefe could scarcely suppress a smile as the fallen ex-gladiator gave him the eye. When he finished the count of 10, Horton clasped both gloved hands over his head and waved triumphantly to an imaginary audi- ence. Next he sprang gingerly over to Dorsey who per- mitted himself to be assisted to his feet. "I'm sorry. Old Timer," Horton said. "I had to knock you out in the first round." Dorsey shook his head as if emerging from the uncon- scious. Later, when both men were out of their boxing togs, Horton, with a princely air, slipped some extra collateral into Dorsey's hands and promptly made for his Cadillac. When the latter unrolled it. he saw that it was a $100 note. Wrong Clientele I produced my first play with Winchell Smith, which was "Turn to the Eight." back in 1916. Some years later Smith and I were getting ready to present a play of his called "The New Henrietta." Joseph Brooks, the producer of Edgar Wallace's "Ben Hur," was to be our general m,inager. Brooks met us at the Lambs one day and told us that he had booked the play into the Knickerbocker. "That house!" exclaimed Smith. "Why, that's no place for it. My little comedy will be lost in there.'' "No it won't," replied Brooks, reassuringly. "Don't you know that the Knickerbocker is the only theatre In New York that has a steady clientele?" "Is that so?" Smith answered, a little doubtfully. "What about the play that's running there now? It's a flop." "Oh, that one/' Brooks replied. "The clientele just didn't come." -^John Golden. : Vanishing Specie: The Story Ed By ALAN JACKSON Mr. Billy Friedberg, the press agent (on Broadway they are referred to as Maneyacs) remarked the other day that Eastern Story Editors are like tawny pipits. They are rare and known to connoisseurs only. A fan ■will spot one and will excitedly run to a telephone book and call a fellow aficionado. "I Saw one today," he will exclaim, '^walking west on 44th Street," Glee- fully, the fellow will enter the event in his notebook, like the late J. Otis Swift or a member of the Audubon Society. It will have made his day. Vawety reporters, of course, know all about story editors. They are the persons who tell them what stories are being bought and who is being fired at other studios (it is considered unethical for a story editor to say anything at all about his own studio). But Vahiety readers may like, to have their memories refreshed about this apparently vanishing species. These pipits seem to have fairly regular haunts../ Their favorite is George's bar at the Ritz. There they ■may be seen congregating late afternoons, a weird, huddled and muffled group that gives the place the appearance and atmosphere of the stage set of "Out- ward Bound." You may also see them, separately, wanly tiying to get a table at the Algonquin or peck^ ing at a dish of eggs at'Loiiis XIV. There is one who may be spotted almost every Friday noon lurking In a corner at Sardi's. Their function is to cover every book ever written or about to be written and also, of course, to cover themselves. This results in a series of psychosomatic disorders. Their minds are so cluttered with publish- ers' titles and the names and telephone numbers of , agents that they become unsuited to handle the ordi- nary details of living. They even get their own busi- ness mixed up. One was heard the other day mention- ing a book named, "What Makes Sammy Ross Run?", an obvious confusion hetween "What Makes Sammy Run?", by Budd Schulberg, and "He Ran All the Way," by Sam Ross. Another has taken to referring to the • new Marquand book as "No Wickford Point of Re- turn," which takes less explanation. The characteristics of story editors are fairly easy to describe. They resemble .the stories they buy. Thus " a good story editor should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. He should have more character than plot. He should have a frame and his exposition should not be too long, He should dress simply, since costumes co.st too much. He is happier with a gim- mick. And he,should always have a new twist—pref- erbly-blonde. ■ Despite its frailties the breed is. basically a happy one. It feels secure in possessing a profound, if shal- low, knowledge of all American and European litera- ture. Thus people are kind to it and at times consult or caress it. It gets invited to parties. Who else but a story editor would have the privilege of discussing literature with, say, Lee Borgida, Lee Barker, Lee Wright or Lee Kersh? Or making double talk with Doubleday? Or lunching with Carol Brandt (not of Brandt & Brandt), or Bennett Cerf (not of M.G.M.)? Or with Harold Maxson or Mat Shulman? Or Pauker or Dr. Faustus? Indeed, like poor Kit Marlowe, story editors may well be called the Muses' darlings, although now there are nowhere near nine of them. They have found out 10 their certainty—and uncertainty—that their grind IS no lough 3ob to ax. . NAME YOUR POISON Claude Blnyon By CLAUDE BINYON Hollywood. The pile of manuscripts was so high, and Chandler was slumped so low, that the secretary could see only the ton of his head over the desk. "Mr. Joe Shakespciire to see you," she said. Chandler straightened tiredly and added another irritating manuscript to the pile on his desk. "Send him in." Joe Shakespeare entered the office sidewise, as is the custoni with men to whom doorways are rarely opened wide. He carried a large briefcase with the greatest of ease, because it was empty. "It's nice of you tt^ jsee me, Mr. Chandler," he said. . "Not at all," said Chandler. "I need- a story for Tana Mavis and I heard you have one." "Sure thing," said Shakespeare, selecting the closest chair. He sat grinning until Chandler became un- comfortable. "Where is it?" asked Chandler finally, "in my head," said Shakespeare. Chandler inhaled uneasily. "I haven't much time," he 8aid. "This won't take two minutes," answered Shake- speare. He leaned back and crossed his legs. "We open on a little Island in the Pacific," he said. "Just long enough to see it's a little island, then we move in to a sarong hanging on the limb of a tree. We hear splash- ing in a pool . . ." . "No, thanks," said Chandler. "Tana just did that one." "I see your point," said Shakespeare, "but you inter- rupted me. As I was about to say, we see this maid carrying a breakfast tray, and you can tell from the hall she's walking down that this is a class layout. She stops In front of a bedroom door and knocks. There's no answer. She opens the door, screams and drops the tray." Shakespeare pauses, waiting brightly for Chandler's tense question. Chandler just looks at him. "Did I mention to you about the Automat?" asks Shakespeare. "Automat?" "You see," says Shakespeare, "she's put her money in the coffee thing but the little door won't open. And it's her last nickel. So this fellow comes along—this Gable type-;—and he tries to force the thing open with his knife. A busboy spots him, and the cops come, and there's—" "Is that why the maid screamed and dropped the tray?" asked Chandler. "What maid?" asked Shakespeare. "What I was getting at is that after the credit titles we fade in on a big clock in a tower. It's midnight. Then we go to a bridge. There's fog coming up from the river, and the clock sounds like it's striking in a barrel. We see a girl climbing up onto the rail, and all at once there's a shout and the sound of running feet." He paused again with his bright smile. "Go on," said Chandler. Shakespeare stared at him. "Really?", he asked. "You reaUy want me to go on?" "I dare you," said Chandler. Shakespeare's uneasiness showed. "Where was I?" he asked. "Did I get to the opening scene where this pea.sant girl is kneeling by her father's grave, swearing venge- ance?"' • ■ "No," said Chandler firmly. "There was a shout, and the sound of running feet." "Oh," said Shakespeare. "Go on," said Chandler. Shakespeare wagged his head in abject bewilderment "I can't," he said. "Nobody's ever asked me to go farther than that." Silently he picked up his briefcase and edged Sidewise . from the office. For Once, Off Schedule , Backstage conditions are always a favorite topic of conversation when actor iPieets actor. The dressing room in the Cleveland Auditorium will always be my iTio.st memorable dressing room. And Nellye, my maid, will never, never forget it. We were one and one-half flights up from the stage. In addition we were approximately 300 feet oC floor space from stage entrance to the dressing room door. A freight elevator, however, was especially helpful for the nine rapid changes of costumes during each performance of "Annie Get Your Gun". But it was not quite as simple as that. This is a little different from the average theatre, One section seats 4,200 people. But there is still a larger hall in the same building which is used for circuses and con- ventions. Between my dressing room and the con^ vention hall was a two-room emergency hospital. There was a flower exhibition in the convention hall that was also well attended and there was consider- able traffic to the hospital. During the first performance the freight elevator was dplayed and despite some kind of recordrbreaking dash down the hall, down the stairs, and across the , stage to the entrance, we were late for a musical cue. Firm orders were given that nothing should delay the operator from having the elevator on time. Notliing. At the next performance, while making a quick change, there was a timid knock on the dre.ssing room door. There seemed no time to answer that knock or the next or the next But the next knock was firmer. Something had to be done. Nellye opened •the door. I heard her saying, "Yes. .. * Yes! ... Yes!!' The door closed. Nellye continued to help me niake the change. I noticed she was pale—she grew whiter. Then she swayed, started to fall, caught herself. It was late. I had to run down the hall for the elevator. But there was no elevator. I dashed down the hall again, down the stairs, across the stage and on. Later, Nellye told. Yes, she had opened tlie door and standing before her were four policemen and the elevator operator, who timidly and softly asked, "Could we please, miss—just this time—take this lady ^ down in the elevator?"'—and he pointed, and Nellye eaw on a stretcher at her feet the lady with her . throat cut from ear to earl Nellye had said, "Yes- :• • Yes! ... Yes!!" The lady had gotten into a fight with two gentlemen friends at the flower show. —Mary Marian.