Hollywood Spectator (1931)

August 1, 1931 13 Notes from Hollywood's Dude Ranch By R. E. Sherwood IT was A1 Jolson who applied the term, “The Dude Ranch,” to the United Artists’ Studio, and seldom have I heard of an apter label. There is an atmosphere of aristocratic elegance about the place which ill accords with the rough and ready traditions of the old West. One has the feeling, when strolling about the United Artists’ lot (one never hurries), that at any moment one may encounter the Duke of Sutherland or Laddie Sanford or Mrs. Vanderbilt Church trying hard, though not with entire success, to look like natives of Hollywood. This consideration does much to promote the right morale among the hired hands. It is very comforting to know that even though one may be doing menial work one is being given the opportunity to meet the Best People. My only employment on this visit to the film capital has been at United Artists — with Douglas Fairbanks and with Howard Hughes. Consequently, my knowledge of life in the other studios is limited. But whenever I drop in at Paramount or Fox to visit friends, I consider that I’m slumming. ▼ ▼If one becomes very social at United Artists, one also becomes aggressively athletic. The whole organization is in danger of growing muscle-bound. This, of course, is entirely attributable to Douglas Fairbanks. When he first started the studio on Santa Monica Boulevard, he must have stipulated that it was to be devoted primarily to physical culture and only secondarily to the manufacture of motion pictures. Those who have come into United Artists since then have studiously followed Doug’s example. There is hardly a property man or cutter on the lot who can’t put the shot or go around Flint Ridge in 76 or run the hundred in 9.5 seconds. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that Sam Goldwyn is training for the high hurdles in the 1932 Olympics in his spare time, if any. ▼▼ When I return to drab, dreary New York City, which will be any day now, I shall miss the old Dude Ranch, where I have spent such a happy summer mingling with Burke’s Peerage, the Social Register, the N. V. A. and the AllAmerica eleven, and gaping at Miss Billie Dove in her areonautical Jodhpurs. American Humor ▼▼ It is an obvious fact that the film producers are terribly hard put to it to compete with the daily newspapers in the telling of melodramatic stories. Even that super-thriller, The Public Enemy was topped by the episode of “TwoGun” Crowley. There is precisely the same competition in the matter of comedy. Almost any daily paper contains in its columns more loud laughs than are to be derived from an evening of Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Mickey Mouse combined. I saw a superb demonstration of this the other day at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Here was a picture, Young as You Feel, starring one great American humorist, Will Rogers, with a story written by another great American humorist, George Ade. It should have been full of fine comedy and it was. But the greatest yell of laughter that came from the huge audience was provoked by no witticism of Mr. Rogers’ or Mr. Ade’s; it broke out when one of the minor characters uttered the phrase, “What a man ” ▼▼ Will Rogers is very funny, and so is George Ade — but neither of them can hope to outdo Ma Kennedy as a purveyor of true American humor. Teutonic Gaul ▼ ▼ The, cinema has always been full of strange contradictions, but the strangest of all to me is Ernst Lubitsch’s sense of humor. Where did he get it? Somewhere, in his Teutonic ancestry, there must have been one lone Frenchman. It may well have been Voltaire himself who, you will remember, spent a great deal of time at Potsdam. I have seen many good German comedies, and laughed heartily at translated jokes from Fliegende Blaetter and Simplicissmus, so I am making no remarks that may be interpreted as insults to the wit of the German race. But Lubitsch’s peculiar type of humor simply does not fit in a Teuton. Its specific gravity is far too low. It is not only French: it is one hundred per cent Parisian. Undoubtedly, some of the nimble gaiety in The Love Parade and The Smiling Lieutenant may be attributed to the influence of Chevalier, in whose infectious presence everyone seems to become French. That, however, does not account for the softness of the Lubitsch touch in such memorable comedies as The Marriage Circle and Forbidden Paradise, produced long before Chevalier had moved from the slopes of Montmartre to the gold-filled hills of California. ▼ ▼ Whether Lubitsch derives his precise, delicate style from France, Germany, or Mr. B. P. Schulberg, he has it, and it is unique. However, there is a distinct line between a style and a formula, and T am afraid that The Smiling Lieutenant does not quite observe the boundary. I have remarked elsewhere that Lubitsch seems to be getting a little tired. His powers of invention have appreciably diminished, the result being that his latest efforts are stenciled but not colored. The familiar trademark is distinctly visible upon The Smiling Lieutenant, but the familiar flavor is somewhat missing. Grateful thanks on behalf of the Great Public, until now unaccountably withheld, are herewith presented to the Bard of Astoria. He has put upon the screen the first violin case in three years that does not contain a machine gun. Don’t Mention the Weather ▼ ▼ It is and has been for the last three weeks so terribly hot in Los Angeles and adjacent regions that you could swim through the air. Thousands of people have been paralyzed,