Hollywood Spectator (1931)

12 Hollywood Spectator An Alien In Hollywood By R. E. Sherwood THE Editor of the Hollywood Spectator will probably be pretty indignant to hear that there is one more playwright in Hollywood — just as the mayor of Newcastle-on-Tyne would be peeved by the discovery of another lump of imported coal. However — in this case — Mr. Beaton has only himself to thank, or blame. In the columns of his obnoxious journal, he has frequently kidded me because I am so consistently misinformed in my motion picture reviews. The Hollywood Spectator has pointed out on more occasions than one that I’m shamefully ignorant of the subject whereof I write with so much authority. I have been told, in these pages, that I should do one of two things: come out to Hollywood and get an education, or shut up. The latter alternative is, of course, unthinkable for one of my temperament. So I’m here, in Hollywood — and more bewildered than ever. I wanted to see all the studios and gather some inside information. But they are now applying a lot of new rules designed to keep out the riff-raff from Iowa and points east. It is impossible for a stranger to get in, especially if he is not the type, unless he has a letter of recommendation from his clergyman and an engraved card from Louella Parsons. ▼ ▼ Having neither of these, I was rebuffed at one portal after another. I went to the Brown Derby, but all I saw there was a group of gentlemen whom I have seen before in the Hotel Astor on West 45th Street. Consequently, there was nothing for it but to apply for work. I went to Howard Hughes, who is notoriously liberal. As luck would have it, he hadn’t read what I said about Hell’s Angels, so he hired me. This bit of good fortune enabled me to gain admission to the United Artists Studio — but since I have been there, the only people I have seen are fellow members of The Dramatists’ Guild (all in bad standing). It’s amazing how many authors of unsuccessful stage plays are now wearing white flannels in Hollywood. ▼ ▼ One playwright that I encountered reported to me as follows : “When I get back to New York (God forbid!) the first thing I’ll do is murder George Kaufman and Moss Hart, the authors of Once In a Lifetime. Before the production of that play, everything was fine for us playwrights out here. Our employers didn’t bother us, and we didn’t annoy them. All that passed between us was the weekly courtesy of a check, and aside from the labor of endorsing and depositing it, our time was our own. “I was just beginning to love California, and was making some very valuable friendships here — when along came Once In a Lifetime to convince the Glogauers that us authors are simply itching to work. What an idea!” Playwrights ▼ ▼ The playwrights in Hollywood are deserving of intense sympathy. The psychological problem confronting them is a grievous one: it is the ancient, relentless problem of self justification. “How shall I persuade myself that I am worthy of all this?” is the question they utter in the secrecy of their inner beings, and the inevitable reply is, “I haven’t the faintest idea.” They have just been through the impact of a flop on Broadway— or a series of flops. They have smarted under the scorn of the critical boys who lead in Variety’s Box Score. Their pride is frayed. And then — they are approached by the emissaries of Mr. Goldwyn or Mr. Mayer, and cajoled and flattered into thinking that they’re indispensable to a colossal, potent industry. They are given swimming pools, tennis courts, patios, rose arbors and views of Catalina Island. They have become somebody at last, and they feel that they should now be able to sneer at the small-time Broadway theatre people who had rejected them. And yet — there remains the persistent, cankerous suspicion that Broadway was right in its estimate of their worth, and that Hollywood is grotesquely wrong. ▼ ▼ At the top of the contract that I signed with Caddo Productions, Inc., was typewritten my name, and under it the statement, “herein called The Artist.” That was alarming enough — to be known henceforth as “The Artist”— but what followed was even more staggering. “Whereas,” read the contract, “The Artist represents that the services to be rendered hereunder are and shall continue to be of a special, unique, unusual, extraordinary and intellectual character.” Who said that I represented all that? Fortunately my contract extended for only two weeks, but I have heard of other authors who have signed up for long terms. Think of anyone continuing to be “special, unique, unusual, extraordinary and intellectual” for twelve whole months ! Howard Hughes ▼ ▼ To revert for a moment to my late employer, Howard Hughes: In view of the fact that he treated me with a degree of consideration that I never hoped to gain from any motion picture producer, it ill becomes me to speak favorably of him. It is always wise for a critic to pan his friends and associates so that he may gain credit for great impartiality and lack of prejudice. Nevertheless, I note that Mr. Beaton has expressed confidence in Hughes as a superior celluloid merchant, and, I therefore feel justified in doing likewise. He is unquestionably a unique figure in the movie business, and an intensely interesting one. ▼ ▼ He has his severe limitations — principally immaturity (which is also a considerable asset) and ignorance of almost everything outside the realms of mechanism and sport. He resembles a small boy who is realizing his ambition to drive a hook-and-ladder truck at seventy miles an hour through the most congested districts, making a lot of noise and revelling in hairbreadth escapes. One may reasonably ask, “Will that crazy kid never grow up?”; but at the same time, one may be sure that he will manipulate the truck with an admirable skill and cool-headedness, and even though at the end