Hollywood Spectator (1931)

June 20, 1931 13 of his ride he will forget what he came for, and neglect to put out the fire, he will have given the bystanders a great show while he was on the way. It is neither the desire to make money nor the gratification of an exhibition complex that is responsible for his activity in the film business. It is nothing more nor less than a creative enthusiasm that can be sated in no other way. He would probably sock anyone who called him an artist; I imagine that he thinks that an artist is necessarily something of a siss. But that is what, in his curious way, he is. ▼ T He is possessed of an extraordinary shrewd native intelligence, and a sense of realism which enables him to see his own blunders clearly. Hell’s Angels was an expensive mess, but it has turned out to be a profitable one, for it has contributed immeasurably to the education of Howard Hughes. (Those who know baseball history will recall that Fred Merkle’s disastrous boner converted him into one of the most valuable players in the game.) The greatest testimony to Hughes’s instinctive good taste is to be found in the roster of directors now working for him: Frank Lloyd, Howard Hawks and Lewis Milestone. The presence of such men on the pay-roll is not to be attributed entirely to vast wealth nor to his dumb luck, either. His principal object in life is to make good pictures, and he knows that the first, and last, step toward that object is to enlist the services of good directors. ▼ ▼ He has also a flaming spirit of independence. I doubt very much that all the Schencks, Goldwyns and Mayers of this earth will ever put a dent in his resolve to keep himself apart from their system. They will not flatter or cajole or gyp him into the form of bondage that they seek to impose. I hope he holds out, and continues as he is now — with a small organization, dedicated to the production of few pictures, all of which are hand-made. In this way he can be of vast service to the movies and can also have the good time which is his heart’s desire. Hooch and Hamburger ▼ ▼ While crossing the Mexican border, after a happy ride on the wheel at Agua Caliente, I stopped for a brief chat with the U. S. Customs authorities. The only contraband that they found was one apple, the property of my sevenyear-old daughter, who had planned to munch on it during the long ride to Beverly Hills. The minions of the law took the apple away from the child, leaving her parents to explain to her just why it was right and proper of them to do so. At almost the same time, radio fans were listening to a thrilling broadcast from a schooner on Rum Row, during which the skipper told the world that he had been serving the bootleg industry successfully for ten years and had, on one occasion, landed 68,000 cases of illicit hooch on the shores of these United States. ▼ ▼ It is all very well to sound a note of cheery hope in times of stress, but it’s my belief that a roadeteria proprietor near Long Beach overdid it somewhat when he hung out a sign bearing the legend : Optimistic Hamburgers. There is no earthly reason why hamburgers should be warmed with the glow of optimism. That is a quality which should be limited to those customers who have to eat them. Blondes ▼ ▼ One has to be horribly careful of what one says here in Hollywood. It is necessary to look before you peep. I recently composed a sermon on the intensely interesting (to me) subject of feminine beauty in these parts, and my remarks were published in the Hollywood Daily Citizen. I protested vehemently against the prevalence of platinum blonde hair — which, it seemed to me, is a gross perversion of nature in a land where nature is said to have done her best. I assigned the initial responsibility for this wholesale atrocity to Miss Jean Harlow. Now it appears that I was guilty of bad taste, for Miss Harlow and I were at the time employees of the same concern. Both she and I were discoveries of Howard Hughes, and a feeling of esprit de corps, if not the ordinary standards of gentlemanly conduct, should have prevented me from saying a word against her. Consequently, I take this opportunity to retract everything . . . But I still feel badly about platinum blonde hair. Indeed, my emotions are so intense that I’m inspired to the following lyrical outburst: Complexions are helped by Arden or Pond — But only God can make a blonde. Lamentations ▼ ▼ There are so many things that upset and baffle me that I can’t begin to list them all. (A voice: Did anyone urge you to begin?) What is most disturbing is all this talk about retrenchment. What is retrenchment? Does it mean they’re going back to war pictures? During the past few months, whenever any Californian arrived reluctantly on the east coast, he would shout: “What’s this business depression that you New Yorkers are beefing about? Where is it? We haven’t heard of it out in God’s country. Out there everything’s fine. The trouble with you easterners is — you’re yellow. You’re squawking before you’re hurt. . . . Come on, brother. Brace up ! Buck up! Buy now! Forget old man Depression, and old man Depression will forget about you ! Business is good ! Keep it good! Don’t sell America short!” Or words to that effect. ▼ ▼ Consequently, when I came out here, I expected to gain surcease from the chorus of moanings and groanings that make night hideous in my own home town. Instead of which . . . It is hardly necessary for me to put down the manifold lamentations that have assailed my ears in this favored realm. Suffice it to say that I heard one eminent producer justify his dismissal of a large number of employees on the ground that “thousands of men and women are standing in bread lines in New York City.” He evidently felt that Hollywood is being behind the Kidders ▼ ▼ Those who make a profession of kidding (they used to be known as “satirists”) are inclined to be sour, despondent fellows with funereal faces and torpid livers. Their moroseness is attributable to the profound conviction that theirs is the most futile occupation in the world. They waste their lives away hurling the grenades of ridicule at the manifold accumulations of hypocrisy and bunk only to see their wellaimed missiles fizzle out ineffectually. The satire perishes, but the bunk apparently goes on forever. Nevertheless — while I have been in Hollywood, I have come to the conclusion that the kidders have been underestimating their own powers. It seems that they have accomplished much more than they know. ▼ ▼ I have already mentioned the marked influence of Once In a Lifetime, which has caused so many protesting authors either to be sent home or put to work. Even more apparent is the effect of years and years of jibing upon the self-consciousness of the California booster. That obstreperous patriot has become much less of a pest than he used to be. He is still far from perfect, but at least he can now be