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HOLLYWOOD FILMOGRAPH
The MOVING MOVIE THRONG
By John Hall
Peace hovers over motion picture Hollywood.
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The eight-weeks war between Equity and the producers draws to an end as representatives from both sides meet at the counsel table. There is reason to hope that before this is in print, all will be settled.
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As in all wars, there has been drama, comedy, heartrending pathos, comic opera and opera bouffe. The ultimate, as usual, proves the silly uselessness of the whole human stew.
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It is to be earnestly hoped that the producers will remember the "poor little extra girl" they dramatically pointed to as a pitiable victim < of the men and women of Equity who demanded better working conditions by refusing to work, thereby halting studio activities.
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It is to be hoped that the men and women who worked but "sixty per cent of the time" and loafed the rest, continuing to draw salaries, shall continue their easy lives. They need the rest and the money more than the "poor little extra girl," who is free from the burdens imposed by a Rolls Royce car and a palace with servants.
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Living the life of Riley has its compensating obligations, as all stars know. The six rows surrounding the Hollywood stadium fight ring are filled with stars and near-stars who sometimes envy the lusty democracy of the mob in the gallery. If he can't pay for that three-dollar seat, the near-star (because of his position), misses the scraps. The gallery god
;goes on forever, spending his "buck" like a millionaire and roaring his refreshingly frank opinions of the fighters at his own sweet will. Hollywood players who work only "sixty per cent of the time" can't do that. This is one of Hollywood's ultra-social mandates no "prominent" movie god
,or goddess may transgress and escape the wrath of the poo-bahs who sit on
jhigh.
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Thinking of gallery gods reminds one that they are immortal. When Nero held his arena shows featuring ; feeding Christians to starving lions i the gallery gods roared their glee; ! and when the same Nero and his enI tire pack went the way of all such, the gallery gods hailed the event with 1 their well known howls of satisfaction. Men and empires fade from the human stage; but the gallery god blooms through the ages.
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Now and then a wise politician thinks of the gallery gods — and, while he bows to them, waxes great and prosperous. When he turns from them and is lost in the fat of his wealth and "social position" his exit from the stage is hailed with their roars. Too late, he realizes that they are undef eatable; that he who turns from them is doomed to complete annihilation.
The "poor little extra" girl belongs among the gallery gods. Reference to her by the motion picture producers was the thought of a good brain. But the strategy was fumbled by the poobahs of the Mighty. The publicity man who started the thought should be promoted. He was on the right track. But the poo-bahs cunningly realized that that little stray child of the gallery gods was the fringe of a mighty ocean of humanity, not to be played with.
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To unseat the Mighty is no great task. To satisfy the gallery gods is a Cyclopean undertaking; a colossal job before which all men tremble. The stars who work but "sixty per cent of the time," when they were thrown to the gallery gods, instead of being torn limb from limb, were scornfully rejected by the enraged gods, crying for the blood of the Neros. Down through the ages this has been so. When the gallery gods want a fat bullock they profanely scorn a goat. Every name carved in stone or sunk in bronze was put there by the gallery gods.
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And what human institution looks more to the mercy of the gallery gods than the American motion picture? Its Neros may "write down" to the gods; but, in the end, they LOOK UP to the same sardonically leering deities. The gargoyles of Notre Dame peer from all heights and sneer at all earthly might. Our picture poo-bahs should look into this.
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Across the counsel table they see faces they know and peer into minds they think they understand. There before them is a psychology they fondly imagine they comprehend. Far away from that counsel table, lost in the teeming millions of the Nation; sweating, toiling millions of gargoyles look on, leer and prepare for the exit roar of the gods of the gallery. A smoothly worn, broad path of glory reaches from that table, through the valleys, over the highest peaks to eternal oblivion. The gallery gods will line its sides and roar from view the remains of the vainglor3r who forgot them.
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It is the "poor little extra girl" doing her "mob scene" stuff, with no charge for the "background atmosphere." It is the biggest show ever staged by human mind. It is the collective expression of the gallery gods, out for a real Roman holiday, when human sacrifice is the "top spot" act of the day. And the poo-bahs of the period play the principal roles. For, when the gallery gods stage a show, they put on nothing short of a stupendous spectacle fit for the gods. Only the Mighty play the leads. It is the eternal clash of extremes. If man MUST have social contrasts, and FORCE sways all, logically, the victory must go to the gods of the gallery.
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Utopia remains a far distant and wholly unexplored land. Materialism is King, and the rich gifts come from
the gods — the gallery gods. Theirs to reward or chastise. We call them "The people." They are the same "people" who tossed aside every Mighty One from the Pharaohs to the last deposed town constable. They are the gallery gods who sit on high and wildly cheer the newest hero, weary of him and destroy him.
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"I will not be influenced by the mob" is the sonorously spoken retort of entrenched Power when approached by the representative of the gallery gods. Kings without number have spoken these words — and have quickly lost their heads. They did not stop to think. "I am the State," said one. The gallery gods annihilated all vestiges of his line. Recently one felt mightier than the gods. Though thirty millions of the gods died, they destroyed him and his line. Kings of all kings are the gallery gods.
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Yes; they are the "rabble"; but every bottle of costly perfume used by the poo-bahs and their ladies is brewed from the sweat of the "rabble." Every brilliantly sparkling diamond lost its roughness by passing through their horny hands. Every yard of fine silk is woven by a backbending coolie or a back-bending white, a tattered, insignificant fragment of that Power held in the endlessly weaving mass we call "The people."
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That this day and age should produce industrial leaders who do not know these things, and who are not guided accordingly, is hard to understand. It is elementary economic truth, familiar to most of our great captains of industry. That the men of the motion picture industry, whose material success is directly dependent upon the goodwill of the gallery gods, are not in step with capital and labor economics is a bit bewildering. <£ <g <£
Predicting that the motion picture producers and exhibitors SHALL be in step with capital and labor economics and politics requires no vast amount of intellect. The gallery gods will see to that. Fortunately, the patience of the gods is great. It is a simple law of physics that vast bodies move slowly. And crushing power is in exact ratio with bulk. When the gallery gods DO move, nothing stands before them. In keeping with the times, the gods have leaders. They are NOT a "mob" nor a "rabble." They are economically and politically (in a union sense), powerfully organized. The gallery gods who gave Nero the "Hail and farewell" sign now dish out the united "razzberry."
Peace hovers over Hollywood. The jesters cease their antics and the "heavy" dramatics are halted while the gallery gods form a ring and watch the men sitting at the counsel table. The "poor little extra girl" is with her kind, waiting and watching. She is going to be the same "poor little extra girl," w-ith the difference that she is going to retain her self
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respect. Her big leaders among the gallery gods are going to see to that. She is going to be a satisfied gallery goddess; a free woman; free to look every casting office brat in the eye and demand common civility and the right to see his boss.
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The patient gallery gods are preparing to postpone their Roman holiday. For the gallery gods are magnanimous to a surrendering foe. They have the bigness of Might. There is no record that they ever crushed the repentant. They know that the man who cries "Ignorant rabble" is possessed of strange devils. Relieved of his hallucinations and sanely arrogant, they instantly destroy him. The hallucinations strangling the reason of Hollywood's picture men are leaving them. Reason dawns and the gallery gods hold their hands.
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The "poor little extra girl" of the producers stands with the waiting army of gallery gods, far from an object of pity. In her "poor little" person she typifies ALL gallery gods. And after the intended holiday victims sign on the dotted line, she and her huge army will adjourn to the gallery and yell at the gladiators in the ring. The men and women who work but "sixty per cent of the time" shall be in their ringside seats, their "social position" all they wish and their Rolls Royces at the door. The gallery gods will let them play in the sunlight and strut as struts the peacock— if they are good. If they become unruly, the gallery gods will get them, you may lay to that.
THE Doorway of Hospitality
_1<NTER the doorway of this popular hostelry and you feel at horn*. There'* an atmosphere of cordial welcome which marks the difference between the Hollywood Plaza and ordinary hotels.
Your room, too, has that added touch of distinction. Pictures on the wall, overstuffed fti iture, a floor lamp and reading lamp . . . these are but a few of the features that make you feel at home.
Plg'n Whistle Dining Service Insures the best of food. Therefore, when you are nest in Los Angeles be sure to investigate.
THE HOLLYWOOD
PLAZA HOTEL
Vina Street at Hollywood Boulevard HOLLYWOOD. CALIFORNIA