The international photographer (Feb-Dec 1929)

Four The INTERNATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER ~N0TE5 U RE CROCODILE TEARS Did you notice the neiu cigarette holder Brother Les Rowley has been showing with pride lately, a gift from a certain leading lady on the Paramount lot? It is a shame to undeceive him, as he thinks it was a reward of merit, but said leading lady was enacting a particularly emotional scene, calling for much drama and copious tears. The director, not satisfied, had rehearsed this particular hit of business many times, forgetful of the lunch hour, and Brother Les surreptitiously sent out for a couple of sandwiches, one of which he was eating as the director, satisfied at last, called for a still — also "lunch" in the same breath. Everybody disappeared except Brother Les and the leading lady. After several films had been exposed, the latter, passing Brother Les, exclaimed: "Why, you're crying!" Brother Les indignantly denied it, though tears were rolling down his weather-beaten cheeks. "You are, too. Oh, I must have been good if you were moved to tears/" Brother Les tried to say something, but could not formulate any reply adequate to the occasion and totally forgot the ultimate result of eating a raw onion sandwich. ■j, 4, 4. MAX FACTOR PLEASE NOTE Brother Jackson J. Rose has an inventive turn of mind, and has introduced many practical aids to the cinematographic craft, though he sometimes l/ranches out in other fields. Lately he has not been sleeping well owing to a little circumstance that involved the leading lady of a company on location. She unfortunately forgot her make-up box and, when Brother Rose suggested that her lips were too pale, for lack of the missing accessories, threatened to hold up production several hours, as it was a five mile jaunt back to headquarters. While the director was politely (?) expressing his opinion of actors in general — and his tearful leading lady in particular, a wandering grasshopper lit on Brother Rose's hand, and he brushed it off impatiently. A moment later he glanced down and discovered a yellow stain where it had rested. The old reliable filter informed him that it would photograph quite dark, as it contained a good deal of red, so for the next half hour a wildly gesticulating company chased over an acre or two of ground seeking the elusive insects. The plan proved a great success, but Brother Rose does not sleep well since he has found he cannot patent the idea — and think how many millions of grasshoppers are now going to waste/ FREDERIC COLBURN CLARKE A FAN-CY TALE Brother Joe Walker journeyed to one of the small towns in the purlieus of Los Los Angeles to see the the preview of a picture he had photographed and on the way purchased a large bouquet of roses — intending it for the manager of the theatre. (You know, one of those little courtesies theatre managers appreciate so much and seldom get.) Brother Joe arrived early and settled comfortably in his seat, still holding his flowers, as the manager had not yet put in an appearance. After reading the advertisements on the edge of the curtain, twenty-seven times and trying to seem unconscious of the amused glances and stares the natives bestowed on his Hollywood clothes and his roses the auditorium was darkened, and the show began. But what was this? Instead of the title and credit line for Brother Joe, a conglomeration of flickers and unmeaning flashes rushed across the screen for a moment — then darkness. The audience tittered. "One moment, please," was flashed on the screen. Then the mystery repeated. So did the request sign. Brother Joe gasped. Where was his beloved picture. Slipping out of his scat, he found the manager in the doorway swearing audibly. This was no auspicious moment for presenting a bouquet. "What's the trouble," whispered Brother Joe, carefully holding his roses behind him. "How the hell do I know," snapped the frantic manager. "My regular operator is sick — got a new man on tonight." "Maybe I can help — I'm a cameraman." "Gosh — get right up that ladder," and Brother Joe was energetically assisted on his way. In the operator's booth he found a grimy young man sweating over a rewinder, film all over the place. "What's the trouble," asked Brother Joe. "How the hell do I know," was the surly answer. Brother Joe looked over the machine as the youth re-threaded the film, and prepared for another start. "Just a minute," exclaimed Joe; "where's your shutter?" "Huh? Ye mean that there fan," pointing to the shutter on a nearby shelf; "I took th' dam thing off — don't need no fan on these here now — snow pichers." Brother Joe gasped. "Have you a card," he inquired. "From the heterogeneous contents of his pocket the youth extended a grimy pasteboard. Sure he had a card — Plumbers' Union No. 033. Brother Joe silently adjusted the shutter and started the machine. On came the title — the credit line for Brother Joe. He turned and presented the astonished youth with the roses. "You deserve these more than the manager does," he said, and went back to his seat to enjoy the frigid winter scenes. "$• 4> 4* BINDING AND LEGAL Brother Howard Hurd seems to have discovered the Fountain of Youth, as regards appearance, but he looked much younger when connected with the MetroGoldwyn-Maycr studio and, in a pair of golf trousers — well — this is what they got him into! Brother Hurd went out to lunch one day and sat across the table from an old white-haired prospector from Arizona who was suffering from ill health, seeking gold in the "movies" instead of in "them thar hills." (No, he wasn't working.) Brother Hurd took the old man into the studio and persuaded a director who was putting on a western picture to add his protege to the cast. A couple of hours later Brother Hurd came out of a conference and strolled around to see how the old man was getting along. As he came in sight of the set, the prospector — who resembled the prophet Elijah — in a hastily improvised cassock and stole and with a copy of "Peck's Bad Boy," in lieu of a bible, was about to intone the marriage service over the two leading players as the cameras began to grind. Suddenly wild shouts interrupted the solemnity and Brother Hurd rushed in with arms upraised, shouting "Stop! Stop!" "What's the matter now?" growled the director. Brother Hurd shook an accusing finger in the psuedo-parson's face, who dodged, expecting a fist. "That man is a regularly ordained minister of the church of England," declared Brother Hurd, "and as is — //;;'.( ceremony would be perfectly binding and legal — he told me so himself this morning! Didn't you," he demanded, turning to the near actor who was eyeing him complacently. "Wall," he replied, looking down at Brother Hurd's short pants and golf stockings, "ye wuz tellin' me ye wanted realism in yer picher, an' I 'lowed from yer short pants ye wa'nt old enough ter be a liar!" 4 4* 4 HYMENEAL Brother Paul Hill has taken unto himself a wife. He was married on August 18 to Miss Ruth Lee at the Little Church of the Flowers. Every member of Local 659 heartily wishes this fine young couple a long] and happy life. * * As The International Photographer goes to press the editor is informed that Brother William Foxhall, assistant, has become a Benedick, but no details are available. Don't be so bashful, Bill. We're all for you. Congratulations.