Hollywood Spectator (1931)

S6 Hollywood Spectator Farewell to FIollywood By R. E. Sherwood THESE last words are written with a trembling pencil. I am at the moment on the Chief, rattling and lurching across the irregular topography of Arizona. (By the way, just what is an arroyo?) The sky is deeply, gloriously blue, but far off to the eastward, ahead of us, is an electrical storm. Increasingly far off to the westward, behind us, is Hollywood. Like so many other members of the Dramatists’ Guild of the Authors’ League of America, I am making the return trip to New York. My option was not renewed — largely because I never had an option. What impressions of the Cinema Citadel am I taking home with me? Who wants to know? ▼ ▼ To begin with, I am going back to New York in a state of comparative humiliation, for when I confront the boys and girls in the back room at Tony’s I shall have no comical stories to tell them — at any rate, no stories of which I am the oppressed hero. All I can say to them is that I found Hollywood a pleasant, if unexciting, community, populated by extraordinarily friendly, kindly, unpretentious people — and to say that sort of thing in New York is to expose oneself as a hopeless dull-wit. Perhaps by the time I reach 125th Street I shall have thought up a number of fascinating yarns of how I was neglected, misunderstood, browbeaten and gypped by the movie moguls; but as things stand, my report is going to be highly disappointing to the numerous admirers of my acidulous style. ▼ V In three months of attendance at a film studio, laboring on three different pictures, I encountered no more instances of stupidity than I would have bumped into had I been employed in a magazine editor’s, book publisher’s or theatrical manager’s office, or even in a bank; indeed — if the truth must be blurted out — fewer instances. It has seemed to me that, in the main, the inferior quality of Hollywood’s product may be attributed to indolence rather than to ignorance. It is not lack of brains that is responsible for mediocrity; it is lack of ambition. And there is ample reason for this lack: The film workers have become ob sessed with a fatal sense of impermanence. “Easy come, easy go”, and “What will it matter a hundred years from to-day?” are expressions indicative of their philosophy of defeatism. There is no self-respecting architect who does not cherish the conviction that someday he will create an edifice that will stand forever, like the Parthenon or the Cathedral of Chartres, as a monument to his eternal glory. There is no real artist who does not hope that, eventually, he will paint a picture which will be enshrined in the Louvre. There is no writer who does not imagine that, perhaps by accident, he will produce a play or novel or poem which will gain a permanent place in world literature. There is no engineer who rejects utterly the possibility that he may evolve a formula comparable in enduring importance to Newton’s. ▼ ▼ The toilers in the Hollywood vineyards, however, know that there isn’t the slightest chance that their works will last more than a season. The better and more intelligent they are, the stronger seems to be this conviction. Their dearest wish is to achieve a few record grosses, make a lot of money, save it, and then retire to the south of France while they’re still young enough to respond to the Riviera’s manifold allurements. They look at the great silent picture triumphs of ten or even five years ago, observe that these films are now laughably out of date, realize that new mechanical inventions will soon make the current crop of masterpieces similarly obsolete, and come to the conclusion that any undue expenditure of mental energy is a waste of time. “Get the dough, and then get out!” Such is the Hollywood battle cry, and it is one which does not lead to the achievement of those finer and better things of which Merton Gill once dreamed. Memories ▼ ▼ As this train on which I’m riding and writing slides down toward Gallup, N.M., random recollections of Hollywood and environs arise to remind me that I had a good time. They are, in case you’re interested, about as follows: Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., giving a startling correct imitation of Noel Coward. A ride to the preview of The Age for Love with Howard Hughes at the wheel. All I could think of during the wild progress was: “Well, anyway, this is one sure way to get my death chronicled on the front page.” The nicest house and garden that I saw in Southern California was that of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Rosson. Eddie Cantor’s description of a Jewish radio announcer at a prize-fight, broadcasting the mournful news that “Goldberg is DOWN !” (We are now in Gallup, N. M., and there are actually cow ponies tethered to telegraph poles. I wonder if they’re props.) The flight of steps leading to Samuel Goldwyn’s office. At the foot of the flight is a gate, with the sign, “PRIVATE — EXIT ONLY”. Vincent Barnett, the supreme ribber, with whom I spent a horribly harrowing three hours without once suspecting that I was being had. The Achillean heel in the make-up of the brilliant, corpulent Lewis Milestone is the notion that he can play tennis. My daughter’s Scotch terrier puppy being chased by the neighbor’s white rabbit. Irving Thalberg berating Douglas Fairbanks for all this talk about retirements and then, later in the conversation, announcing, “I’m going to stay on the job for five more years and then, after that, they can have it!”